


Two Weeks.

by Follevolo



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar!Ian, Fluff, Gallavich, Hospital, M/M, Sexual Violence, gallagher's family fluff, physical violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:12:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1611374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Follevolo/pseuds/Follevolo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian has to stay at the hospital for two weeks. But doctor says he can send texts and mails to feel close to the people who are waiting for him at home.<br/>So Mickey buys a new phone...<br/>Because people who love each other stick together as they can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Never can say goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> So, guys. I don’t even know what this is - I had in mind to write a fic where Ian is in the hospital for two weeks and he can communicate with Gallaghers and Mickey only through phone and mails. I thought it would be fun to write some late night phone conversation or drunk messages and stuff…  
> But I wanted to make some kind of prologue to it and that’s what came out.

«It’s only two weeks kiddo, hold on, we are getting you home as soon as possible, okay?» Fiona hugged her sweet, teary, messed, broken little brother, her little rock, her little Ian in her arms. Tight. He throw his long arms around her and she drowned her nose in his t-shirt, hiding there her tears, and he brushed lightly his fingers on her back, like he was the one who was supposed to make her feel better, and not the other way around.

«I’m gonna miss you» she said «but doctor said you gonna have a laptop and a phone and you can call us and write us any time you want, okay? Doctor said you need to feel free to communicate, but we can’t force you to do it so we are not allowed to start the conversation. But you are free. So you can call whomever you want, or write, or send pictures or start a fucking blog or something. We will be here waiting, okay? You can do this. I need you so much, Ian, God dammit I want you to win this and have the life you deserve, okay? Promise me, promise me you’ll stay strong and take your meds and follow what the doctor says and just talk with your therapist and find your way through it. Please, Ian. I feel so guilty, I’ll… I’ll never forgive myself for not looking for you when you left, texts weren’t enough to know you were okay, I should have looked for you, I should’ve protect you I should’ve read the signs… I should have known better… I should’ve fucking known better…»

Ian felt tears streaming down his face as they hugged more than it was physically possible without breaking each other’s bones. «I promise, Fi.» He said, looking over her shoulder, searching for Lip’s blue eyes. They were glued on Fiona’s back, and he was surprised finding tears in them as well. Their gazes met and it was a second before Lip was hugging them both, his eyes in Ian’s.

«Remember when I found out you were gay, and I asked you if there was one single time I’ve let you down?» Ian nodded, biting his bottom lip to stop it from trembling, desperately trying not to burst into sobs. Lip’s eyes where a window through which he had always been able to see him all. He saw his guilt, he saw his regrets, he saw him not being there, he saw him being blind, he saw him having too many burdens to carry, he saw him falling under pressure. But he saw him loving him always.

«I’m sorry I let you down» Lip said, his voice so low only Ian and Fiona heard him.

Ian hugged him, resting his head on his shoulder «You didn’t. You didn’t» he whispered.

He felt people joining in that messy teary and fucked up kind of goodbye. He felt Carl and Debbie’s bodies reach him from behind, he felt Liam hugging his legs with a laugh, not knowing what was going on, just feeling the love surrounding them.

They were fucked up. They were destined to fuck things up. They were destined to fail, to fall, to break. But they were family, and they were always ready to come back to each other, to put stitches on their skin and scotch on their hearts to put the pieces together.

They were Gallaghers, and what the hell, they were going to survive.

Eventually, they released him, and each of them left the room quickly, trying to gain back control and strength, but really running to hide in a solitary corner to mope quietly. Ian felt suddenly very cold, left alone again in the middle of the room, hugging himself with his long arms, trying to keep himself together but failing miserably, feeling a million pieces of him falling to the ground as he didn’t have enough arms to keep them.

But he wasn’t alone, he realized suddenly, because a familiar pair of hands was cupping his face and resting his forehead on his, brushing lightly his cheeks with his thumbs. When Ian opened his eyes, there it was.

Sky and ocean all together, so close and yet still too far away, he couldn’t see the horizon line.

«You’ll wait for me?» he asked, his voice broken like everything else.

Mickey kissed him like his life depended on it, and really, it did. Then he put a hand in his back pocket and pull out a piece of paper; he handed it to Ian, and he was too close not to notice his cheeks redden a little, his eyes looking away.

«It’s… It’s my new e-mail. And my new phone number. You can write me or call me whenever you want, okay? I promise I will always answer.» Ian looked at him, astonished.

«You mean if I write you you will write me back?»

Mickey rolled his eyes, but he gave Ian his sweetest, shyest smile.

«I’ll try, Firecrotch, but I don’t do poetries, so don’t expect too much»

Ian was almost shocked when he felt a true laugh escape his mouth. He didn’t know he was still able to laugh, but Mickey was always the one to reach him in the darkness and just turn on the light.

They were still resting their foreheads against each other, their nose brushing lightly.

«So… »

«So…»

«I don’t want you to go.»

«I don’t want to go either, but…»

«But you have to.»

«Yeah»

«…I’ll miss you.»

Mickey smiled, but Ian could see him swallowing tears, anxiety painted all over his face. He wanted to keep them in as well, but that fucking meds made him so emotional and he just felt like exploding all the time, and it was too painful and too stressful and just too fucking hard to hide it. So he let it all go, because Mickey was there to catch him, to hold him, to stand him still. He hugged him with so much passion and affection it was more intimate than all the sex they ever had and ever will have.

Mickey hugged him back, and fuck it, he didn’t want Ian to see him cry. He didn’t, really. But Ian saw him anyway and in the end, they didn’t care. They were weak and they were broken, and it was okay as long as they would be weak and broken together.

«I’m not gonna lose you again, you hear me? That’s not gonna happen. So you have to man up and do whatever you have to do, and take care of yourself and fucking come back to me, okay? I’ll wait for fucking ever but you have to come back.»

«I will, Mick. I’ll always come back.»

Mickey made a few steps towards the door, and Ian felt his legs cracking. He reached his bed on the other side of the room, and sat down, watching Mickey’s back slowly moving out the room. He kept the door open with one hand and turned around one last time. There was a smirk between his tears and his eyebrows raised in that expression Ian loved the most.

«I know we are supposed not to put any pressure on you… but if you don’t call me or write to me in an hour I’ll come back here and fucking kidnap you»


	2. Day One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later on the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all the comments and kudos and love, this is so important to me, you don't even know! I usually feel so shitty about everything I write so to have all this support is incredible and sweet and I'm getting emotional, shut up Em, shut up!  
> Hope you enjoy this chapter, if you have suggestions, opinions, critics, anything really, comment or come find me at follevolo.tumblr.com !

**Sent to _Mick -_ 20.00**

I miss you already.

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 20.03**

I knew you would use this excuse to make me act like a fag. I’m supposed to say it back, right?

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 20.04**

If you don’t miss me you don’t have to say it back…

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 20.05**

Of course I do. Stop crying.

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 20.06**

How do you even know I was crying?

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 20.07**

I just do.

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 20.10**

New meds make you cry like a girl watching Titanic on her period.

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 20.15**

You’re a dick.

**Sent to _Firecrotch -_ 20.17**

I take it as a compliment since you lik’em so much.

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 20.30**

How r u

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 20.40**

You know… It’s not so bad. Food is surprisingly good. And therapy groups are nice, there are a lot of people struggling just like I am, so I feel quite comfortable talking about what’s happening in my head without anyone judging me. And people that maybe have been there before can give me support and advices, so it’s good. There are young people too.

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 20.50**

Young people, uh? Some ass you’d like to bang?

**Sent to _Mick -_ 20.52**

Aw, Mick. It’s so adorable that between everything I said you managed to take in just the one information that would make you jealous.

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 20.55**

Yeah, yeah, therapy group is good, happy for ya man. So, what about this ass you wanted to bang?

**Sent to _Mick - 21.03_**

He’s sexy, handsome and funny, he’s black hair and the brightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, and he has a tattoo on his knuckles which I love and the goofiest smile ever and he’s just so… Mine.

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 21.10**

You’re such a fag, smart guy.

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 21.13**

Oh, yeah, big guy? Then stop smiling like an idiot.

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 21.15**

How do you even know I’m fucking smiling?

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 21.20**

I just do.

 

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 22:00**

Are you up?

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 22:02**

Yeah, what? R U ok?

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 22:05**

Nothing, it’s just… First time we don’t sleep together

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 22:08**

My bed feels kinda too big now. And cold.

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 22:09**

Tbh I’m drinking myself to sleep on the couch.

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 22:10**

Oh, Mick…

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 22:15**

I fuckin miss u, man.

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 22:20**

I’d love to drink myself to sleep too, fucking meds. Make me cry all the time and I can’t even smoke a joint to relax.  Doctor says it’s off limits until we find the perfect combination of drugs, and even then it’s probably better if I quit smoking and drinking.

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 22:25**

Do you have a vending machine on your floor?

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 22:26**

Yes, just around the corner of the hallway, why?

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 22:28**

Go buy yourself some chocolate. Then turn your laptop on, we’re watching a movie.

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 22:29**

We?

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 22:34**

Don’t make me spell it out, asswipe.

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 22:40**

Can I ask you a favor without you getting mad at me?

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 22:42**

Depends. Does include some other ass you want to bang?

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 22:45**

Idiot. No. I just… Can we just keep talking on here, like this? Without… Without calling.

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 22:47**

Whatever man, sure we can. You choose how and when, remember?

**Sent to _Mick_ 22:48**

Thank you.

**Sent to _Firecrotch -_ 22:50**

Can you tell me why, though? I know I have a fucking annoying voice, but… Why?

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 23:00**

It’s not your voice. It’s… my therapist says it’s important I don’t feel obliged to act naturally or to appear fine. So right now I’m just letting everything go, you know, I’m always crying and it’s pathetic but it also makes me feel better and free and… It’s cathartic, she says. I… I don’t know if I’d feel comfortable being like this around you, yet.

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 23:01**

Don’t hate me

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 23:05**

Don’t be stupid, Ian. Whatever helps you feel better sounds fine to me, man. You’ll call when you are ready, and it doesn’t have to be me, you know. You can call your family, or Mandy… I know I’m shit at the emotional stuff. But I’m here, ok? I’m trying, you know that, right?

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 23:06**

Yeah, I know.

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 23:07**

Mission chocolate: completed

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 23:08**

Choose the movie (make it an happy one, I need happy, Gallagher)

**Sent to _Mick -_ 23:10**

Thropic thunder!

**Sent to _Firecrotch -_ 23:11**

Great choice, Gallagher.

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 23:18**

So now what?

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 23:20**

Now shout up and watch the movie.

**Sent to _Mick -_ 23:21**

But how is it gonna work? I want to comment with you

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 23:23**

Send me your comments and I’ll tell you what I always tell you every time we watch a movie together and you start talking over every fucking scene.

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 23:24**

Which is…

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 23:25**

Shut up and watch the movie, Gallagher

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 23:26**

Aw, Mick. I can almost hear you say that.

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 23:27**

So which scene are you seeing right now? Why didn’t we synchronized before starting watching it?

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 23:30**

Robert Downey Junior is the kind of everything.

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 23:35**

Ben stiller, though.

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 23:42**

Fuck we should totally watch School of Rock tomorrow night. Jack Black is fucking blond here I can’t even look at him!

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 23:45**

Shut up and watch the movie.

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 23:51**

Mick?

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 23:53**

Yeah, Firecrotch

**Sent to _Mick_ – 23:59 (Message unsent. Click here to send the message!)**

I love you

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 23:59**

Thank you

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 00:06 (Message unsent. Click here to send the message!)**

I love you, Ian

**Sent to _Firecrotch_ \- 23:06**

I wanna fuck RDJ

**Sent to _Mick_ \- 00:07**

Of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why it appeared the same end note of first chapter even here, i'm sorry it's like i keep asking you if you want it to go on but of course i will write a third chapter i already decided i will continue the story! Thank you for all the support you're sending, even if it was just a misunderstanding :)


	3. Day Two (This is not a fucking love letter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian decides Mickey will be his therapy-diary.  
> Mickey gets a little too sweet for his own taste (though, we know he likes'em sweet)

From: Ian Gallagher; [ian.gallagher@gmail.com](mailto:ian.gallagher@gmail.com)

To: Mickey Milkovich;  [mick.vich@live.com](mailto:mick.vich@live.com)

Object: Pussy and proud (not so much, actually)

 

Dear Mick,

This feels so gay. I know. I’m so embarrassed about it. But you said ‘anything that can make you feel better’, right? Don’t laugh at me. I know you will. (I like your laugh, though)

So. Today I had an early therapy session with my shrink and she told me that writing can be very cathartic, you know, it puts things into prospective. She told me that keeping a diary and registering my reactions to the different cocktails of meds can be very useful. But I kind of feel like an idiot to have a diary – so I thought _you_ could be mine. I will tell you what happens in my head and you have to tell me what happens in the Southside.

Do we have a deal?

I miss you.

(Please agree to this)

(Are you fucking laughing at me?)

(God I _really_ miss your laugh)

Ok, I’ll stop now. You promised you would answer. If you needed a reminder. You promised.

 

Ian

 

 _________________________________________________________________________

From: Mickey Milkovich; [mick.vich@live.com](mailto:mick.vich@live.com) 

To: Ian Gallagher; [ian.gallagher@gmail.com](mailto:ian.gallagher@gmail.com)

Object: Fucking pussy!

 

Firecrotch,

Don’t act like a fucking pussy. Of course I’ll do it – what’s the big deal? Jesus, It’s not like we are writing fucking love letters. It’s just longer texts.

Right?

 – M

 

 _________________________________________________________________________

From: Ian Gallagher; [ian.gallagher@gmail.com](mailto:ian.gallagher@gmail.com)

To: Mickey Milkovich;  [mick.vich@live.com](mailto:mick.vich@live.com)

Object: I’m not re-reading this and I fucked everything up so you’re warned

 

Mickey,

Okay, okay, I freaked out. I guess it’s the meds – I always blame the meds for all the stupid things I do, like crying or over-reacting. Maybe I’m just a pussy and the meds have nothing to do about it.

Not that I would mind if you decided to write me a love letter.

Okay, enough with this bullshits, let’s get down to business.

Since I was crying all the time, I asked doc if we could try a new cocktail, and I started taking it this morning. So I’m not crying anymore, but I’m not feeling very good either. I don’t how to describe it – it’s like my own memories are haunting me, my head is full of them and I can’t focus on anything else than bitterness and regrets. Regrets about every aspect of my life that I managed to royally fuck up in the last few months.

Do you want to hear about my dirty laundry?

I regret leaving. I knew what was that “don’t”. I knew it, fuck, but I needed to hear it and even then I don’t know if I would have stayed. You were married – fuck, you _are_ married.

I regret blowing my chances to entering in West Point. It was my dream and now I don’t know where to begin to build my future from scratches. I used to be the one who had everything planned, you know? I liked balance, I liked fucking order. And now, I can’t do balance anymore, my fucking mind doesn’t allow me to have an equilibrium.

It’s so fucking well-fitting. Fate laughs at me.

I regret not being there for my family. At night, I stay awake, you know, staring at the ceiling, and I think: what if I was there? I would have kept an eye on Liam. Cos that was my role, you know? I  was the one keeping an eye on the little ones while the older ones were fucking things up – I was in the middle, not a kid, not an adult. I was the one who never screw things up. I was the one with the steady job, steady aspirations. Now I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore.

It’s just so frustrating, and humiliating. Sure as hell, I’m not a soldier. But I’m not a fucking stripper, either.

I feel numb. I miss home, I miss Fiona telling me we’ll fix it, I miss Lip passing me a joint and smiling at me and I miss Debbie’s tight hugs and I miss Carl asking me where the gay wieners go and I miss Liam, God, my little Liam. I didn’t hug him enough since I came back. I was always so fucking absent.

I don’t know. I don’t know anything.

I want somebody to tell me where do I go from here. I just need to see the end of it, see if what is at the end of the road is worth fighting for, you know?

Oh, I don’t fucking know what the fuck I’m saying.

Fucking meds. Not crying – but I’d rather be crying than feeling so fucking uselessly angry.

I hate myself.

 

 _________________________________________________________________________

From: Mickey Milkovich; [mick.vich@live.com](mailto:mick.vich@live.com)

To: Ian Gallagher; [ian.gallagher@gmail.com](mailto:ian.gallagher@gmail.com)

Object: Gallagher. Breathe.

 

In and out. Slow. Are you there? Breathe. Take a fucking glass of water. Smoke a cigarette outside. Just – take a break from this shit.

 

You know what? Fuck everything. I’ll tell you exactly who you are and what is waiting for you at the end of the fucking road.

 

You are a Gallagher. That means you are a fighter, but mostly it means you are a brother. That’s who you are. You people love each other so much it’s fucking exhausting staying in your presence. You will probably take care of them for all your life. But, here’s the news: they care about you, too. And they will take care of you.

So that’s who you are. You are Ian Gallagher, a fighter and a brother. And still you are so much more than just that… You are someone who smiles at strangers in the street, but not in a creepy way – it’s like you fucking love life and people. You are kind. You are smart. You are a pussy – that has been established. You are fucking romantic, even if you think you can fool me into thinking you are not. I know you are. You are a weirdo, your tastes in music suck – all that fucking indie shit, man, how fucking gay can you be? You are one who likes sleeping with the window open so you can wake up the next day with the sun. You are a breakfast lover, but you never do things just for yourself,  so you always cook for everyone. You are so fucking selfless. And generous. And you are so humble, you aren’t even slightly self-aware.

You don’t see it, even a bit.

I do, though.

 

What’s waiting for you at the end, uh.

Fuck, firecrotch. This seems like a fucking love letter to me.

What do you fucking think it’s waiting for you, uh?

You should fucking sort your shit and ask youself the right questions. I’ll give you a hint. You shouldn’t care about what. You should care about who.

 

  _________________________________________________________________________

From: Ian Gallagher; [ian.gallagher@gmail.com](mailto:ian.gallagher@gmail.com)

To: Mickey Milkovich; [mick.vich@live.com](mailto:mick.vich@live.com)

Object: Thank you

 

I reckon doc was right. This writing shit rally _does_ put things into prospective.

I feel a little better now.

Still a lot of thing on my mind, though.

Thank you for being here and taking all my shit, Mick. I don’t even know why you bother with me, sometimes. It’s not like you’re getting anything good in return. I can’t even bang you properly.

…

I’m scared you’ll get tired of this shit.

Don’t.

Please, don’t get tired.

 

 _________________________________________________________________________

From: Mickey Milkovich;  [mick.vich@live.com](mailto:mick.vich@live.com)

To: Ian Gallagher; [ian.gallagher@gmail.com](mailto:ian.gallagher@gmail.com)

Object: It takes way more shit to scare off a Milkovich, bitch

 

I’m not tired. I’ve exercised all my life with shit pouring on me constantly just to arrive at this very moment fully prepared.

Hell, maybe a proper bang is what’s waiting for us at the end of the fucking road. I hope we’ll make it worth it when it comes.

 

 _________________________________________________________________________

From: Ian Gallagher; [ian.gallagher@gmail.com](mailto:ian.gallagher@gmail.com)

To: Mickey Milkovich; [mick.vich@live.com](mailto:mick.vich@live.com)

Object: I’m regretting saying it no I’m not yes I am

 

I’ll embrace my pussyness and just say it, since I thought it and the whole sense of writing a fucking diary is to let all my feelings storm free.

Are you ready?

With you it’s always worth it.

God, kill me now.

 

 _________________________________________________________________________

From: Ian Gallagher; [ian.gallagher@gmail.com](mailto:ian.gallagher@gmail.com)

To: Mickey Milkovich; [mick.vich@live.com](mailto:mick.vich@live.com)

Object: This shit ends now

 

This fucking idea is getting out of hand. You need to write a diary, but why do I have to write all this fucking faggot shit as well? I don't have to tell you every fucking thing that passes in my head. I'm fucking high. Get out of my head! You’re the one who needs to put shit into prospective, I just have to listen. This is not a fucking love letter.

Fucking off, by the way, why are you dragging me into this.

 

 _________________________________________________________________________

From: Ian Gallagher; [ian.gallagher@gmail.com](mailto:ian.gallagher@gmail.com)

To: Mickey Milkovich;  [mick.vich@live.com](mailto:mick.vich@live.com)

Object: I know you are not telling me something 

 

Okaaaaaaay, Mick. You are no subtle, you know that? What were you thinking that made you feel so ashamed, just tell me. Here’s safe space.

Let’s make a rule: what happens in the mail box stays in the mail box. We’ll never talk face to face about what we wrote here. Sounds fine to you? So we don’t have to be embarrassed.

 

 _________________________________________________________________________

From: Ian Gallagher; [ian.gallagher@gmail.com](mailto:ian.gallagher@gmail.com)

To: Mickey Milkovich;  [mick.vich@live.com](mailto:mick.vich@live.com)

Object: Still not saying it

 

Trust me, you don’t want me to say it.

You’ll want to wait for me to say this shit right in your stupid face.

 

 _________________________________________________________________________

From: Ian Gallagher;  [ian.gallagher@gmail.com](mailto:ian.gallagher@gmail.com)

To: Mickey Milkovich;  [mick.vich@live.com](mailto:mick.vich@live.com)

Object: FUCK what... fuck

 

Fuck.

Just… Fuck.

I’m probably over-thinking it. You meant something about sex, right? Yeah, for sure.

If I happened to think of something else… I blame meds.

Are you smiling now? It feels like you are smiling.

 

 _________________________________________________________________________

From: Mickey Milkovich;  [mick.vich@live.com](mailto:mick.vich@live.com)

To: Ian Gallagher;  [ian.gallagher@gmail.com](mailto:ian.gallagher@gmail.com)

Object: You can’t prove anything

 

This conversation never happened.

And enough with the fucking puppy eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously don't know what happened to me while writing this shit. I hate it - but it just wouldn't get out of my head and even if I tried writing it over and over again from blank page, it was always worse than this, so I just figured I would go with it and do better for day three.  
> Sorry everyone, I probably fell under pressure, I'm not used to people liking what I write! :(


	4. Day Three (Break silences and distances)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to say - you guys are amazing. I have never received so much appreciation and support, and seeing how much you like this story is really, really everything to me. Thank you! 
> 
> I hope you like this new chapter - it's a bit... different. You'll see!

«Ian... Ian?» the woman with the white coat squeezed his shoulder lightly. Ian felt her touch on his skin. He felt it. But yet, he didn’t, really.

He woke up, that morning, and there it was again. Ian felt it. But yet, he didn’t.

Nothing. That’s what it was. It was nothing, and it was back, and it was running in Ian’s veins, it was sterilizing his heart, drowning his brain.

Nothing. Nothing in, nothing out.

«Ian. Okay. It’s okay. Can you move your hand, even just a finger, even a little? Can you move a finger for me?»

Ian could. He could totally move a finger. But again, where were his fingers? Where was his body? He wasn’t sure. It must be here, he though, because I’m here. But yet, he didn’t feel it.

There it was again. Nothing.

«Okay, okay, Ian. Don’t worry. We know what this is and we know how you feel. I’ll keep talking to you until you don’t feel ready, okay? When you feel you want to communicate with me, just move a finger, okay? There’s no need for you to talk now.»

 

 _Okay_ , Ian thought, relieved no one was expecting him to do something.

«Okay. So, I think your meds are too weak. Maybe you need a stronger cocktail, uh? Not too strong, you said the other one made you always cry and be super-edgy, right? Okay. Now I’ll tell you something I want you to remember, Ian. What you feel now is totally normal in your state of things. We’ve seen this happen a thousand times to a thousand people. In this phase of the game, each day is a different day and each cocktail causes different reactions. We were expecting this to happen, sooner or later. It’s not your fault. It’s not something you did wrong» Ian, somewhere, far in the infinite distance of time and space where his body was in that moment, felt something wet on his cheeks. «I don’t want you to be disappointed or angry with yourself. There is a medical explanation to what is happening to you. People don’t blame themselves if they get cancer. Your illness is nobody’s fault. Not yours, not of the people around you.»

She caressed his hair lightly, and he blinked away the tears, her words echoing in his head like a clean, fresh wind, lighting up the darkness, sharpening the haze.

He couldn’t move yet. He couldn’t talk yet.

But he could feel his heart beat and he could feel the warmth of his own tears making their way on his skin, and it was freeing, to feel so broken without panic, it was so damn relaxing, falling over the edge in silence, no one shouting his name, no one complaining. It felt good. Just – let me be broken for a while.

I’ll come back.

«Yeah, yeah. Take it all out» the woman was still there, smiling «You were probably wondering why your family doesn’t have the permission to visit you or to call you. And I’m going to explain that to you now, now that you will surely understand. I don’t always act like this with my patients, but I think that you need to understand how things work to get better. I think you need to find a cause and a consequence to what happens in your life. You are a strong, smart and sensitive young man. You need to find your own stability in your instability. And my job is to help you doing that. When you are surrounded by all your people, the people you love the most and who loves you the most, your biggest desire is either to help them or to make them proud. That’s who you are. There are this unbreakable chains that keep you forever linked to the ones you love, and I know you need them just as much as they need you. But now, I need you to be only you. You understand that? If there was your family here instead of me, you would feel an amount of pressure and fear that isn’t healthy for you now. You would be scared, scared to scare them, scared to worry them, scared to hurt them, scared to lose them. I’m not scared, Ian. I am not worried. I am not hurt. I am not disappointed. And I’m still here.»

Ian felt his lips moving. He felt them tremble a little. He coughed. The doctor was looking at him with a smooth smile. She wasn’t lying. She wasn’t afraid.

Ian nodded, gazing at her. It was nice. He was feeling a lot of things, and none of them made him feel like a monster. For the first time since he found out his disease, he was not sorry. He didn’t have to be. He didn’t have to apologize. He wasn’t hurting anyone. He didn’t have to be embarrassed. He wasn’t doing anything strange. Nobody was looking at him with eyes wide and teary and blue like the ocean.

But he had to do something. He had this one thought, while she was talking, and he knew he needed to take care of it, or it would haunt him. Because he knew everything the doctor said was true.

But he also knew the she didn’t know Mickey Milkovich.

He moved his hand under the bed and took the phone. She raised an eyebrow, but she let him.

He tapped on Mickey’s number and handed the phone to the doctor, who looked at him for a moment in surprise before reacting as naturally as possible.

«Who?»

«Mickey» he answered, his voice low and insecure. She nodded. She was his therapist, after all. She had heard about Mickey Milkovich constantly in the last three days.

«What do you want me to say to him»

«Everything» he whispered, feeling another wave of cry invade is throat.

*

 

«Hey» Ian’s voice was still croaky for the long cry, but he seemed stable. He felt Mickey sigh in relief, and it was almost painful how precise and punctual was in his brain the image of Mickey’s face sighing in that very moment. A cigarette between his fingers.

It should have been him. Not a cigarette. Him, Ian, between his fingers.

Not a fucking cigarette.

«Hey. Your shrink has some balls, man. I like her» Ian felt himself melting at the sound of Mickey’s voice. His strong, goofy tone. God, he knew it. He knew he could take it. He knew he wouldn’t freak out. He’s seen so much, suffered so much. He knew that if he was told what to do and how to do it, he wouldn’t be scared, he wouldn’t be hurt. He was Mickey fucking Milkovich.

Ian has never been so grateful to have him.

«I like her too. I was low today. She was great»

«Yeah, she told me. Better now?»

«Yeah. Just tired»

«Yeah, I reckon lying on the bed all day crying like a pussy is fucking exhausting» Ian rolled his eyes, but couldn’t hold back his smile.

On the other side of the phone, Mickey smiled to himself, feeling Ian smile.

«Idiot» Ian was shocked how natural this was. It felt like going back in time. It felt like afternoons passed at the Kash and Grab just joking around like the two dorks they were. It felt like home.

Mostly, it felt like Mickey.

«Well, princess, do you think you can get your lazy ass to the window or is it too much to ask?»

Ian raised an eyebrow, but got out of bed and walked to the window.

«What» he said «Do you want to look at shooting stars?»

«No man» Ian felt Mickey’s grin on his own face, and it was beautiful «Just look down»

And Ian looked down.

 

Mickey was laying on the hood of the car, which was parked just under Ian’s window. His room was on the first floor, so they were pretty close. Ian could see his eyes shining bright in the night.

But once again, he didn’t _see_ the smile splitting Mickey’s face more than he _felt_ it.

He knew if he opened the window some alarm would start ringing. So he rested his forehead on the glass, sighing lightly.

«What is this thing you and I have for putting glasses between us every now and then?»

«Ask your shrink tomorrow. It probably regards our shitty mothers anyway»

«Yeah, probably.»

«…You’re not crying. I expected crying»

«I’m so happy to see you»

 

And there they were. Like nothing happened. Mickey would have lied if he said that acting so natural was easy in that moment. Because it fucking wasn’t. It was probably the most difficult thing he had ever done in his life. He wanted to cry, and to scream, and to go there and break the glass and hug Ian forever. But he would have all the time in the world to cry and scream, once home, far from Ian, just as Ian did all day, far from him. It was just like that. They needed to be broken on their own, for now. That’s what doctor said.

_Mickey, you need to let him be broken without worrying about what would you feel about it. You two are so close, his hurt is your hurt, and your hurt is his. Fortunately, it can work two ways, you know? You don’t have to lie. He would know. You just have to find a way to smile. You can’t fix him. But you can fix yourself with him. And he will fix himself with you, too. Be broken when apart. But together…_

Ian knew what was coming next when he let his fingers brush lightly the window.

«Take your hand off the glass.»

_Together just break silences and distances._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will only say that I really, really needed to say this things to Ian, because I thought he really really needed to hear them. Sorry if it wasn't very Ian/Mickey centered!
> 
> Lots of love,  
> Em.


	5. Day Four (Okay)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of side-effects and pet-talks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, it's fucking 4:29 am I'm not kidding. What is wrong with me! Em, fucking go to sleep!  
> As you will surely notice, it's unedited and a mess and I don't even care.  
> Yhawn. Goodnight, babes. Love you
> 
> Em

He was still not used to waking up alone. It was stupid – and slightly pathetic – but he felt cold falling asleep alone and he felt cold waking up and he felt cold in between. He felt cold and incomplete and it was stupid, and pathetic.

He missed Gallagher’s house. That tiny bed evidently too little for two men to sleep in, Mickey always used to grump about it, but secretly loved having an excuse to cuddle against Ian’s big chest, intertwining their legs under the blankets after Carl was asleep. He missed the nights he couldn’t sleep, waiting for Ian to come home from work, and he used to get Liam in his arms when he was crying, before anyone could wake up, and just lull him to sleep.

Hell, he even missed noisy mornings and messy breakfasts.

He was a Milkovich, afterall. Once you are in the family, you’ll always be in the family.

And he missed his.

He yawned loudly and stretched an arm to the empty side of his bed, where his phone was abandoned where just a few days before Ian used to lay. He checked lazily if there were any messages – there weren’t.

He ignored that bitter pinch of disappointment raising in his chest – _man up, Milkovich, for Christ’s sake, stop being a fucking pussy_ – and bit his bottom lip. Fuck it, he could not write him first. Rules said Ian had to be the one starting the conversation – he must not push him. Fucking bullshit.

Not that he cared.

I mean, it was just 10 am, Jesus.

He could go on with his life like he always had before Ian Gallagher came into the picture.

He wasn’t a needy bitch.

 

*

 

He just really wanted to fucking know how he was doing.

And, anyway, he left a bunch of his shit at Gallagher’s house. He needed his shit.

 

*

 

«Hey, Mickey» If Fiona was surprised to see him, she didn’t show it. She smiled at him tiredly and immediately let him in, like he didn’t really need a reason to be there; he just belonged.

«Hey. I need to take some stuff I left here» he mumbled awkwardly, trying to justify his presence there more to himself than to her.

She nodded and headed to the kitchen.

«Wanna coffee?» She handed him a cup «It’s black. I think we are the only ones in the house who likes it this way»

No one in his family – except for Mandy – ever gave a shit about how he liked to drink his coffee.

«Pussies. They can’t stand the bitterness»

«Which is what I like the most about coffee. It’s the drink equivalent of living in the Southside»

Mickey snorted and rolled his eyes.

«Bullshit. That’s cheap tequila»

«Touchè»

They smiled to each other for a brief moment, before breaking eye-contact and sip their coffees in an embarrassed silence.

«Anything from the redhead yet?» Mickey felt his voice break a little, and prayed to all the gods he didn’t believe in that Fiona wouldn’t notice. But deep down he knew she wouldn’t miss it, and yet she would smoothly pretend to ignore it, because that’s how she was – she just had extremely clear where the line between concern and officiousness was, and she knew better than trample on the pride of a Milkovich.

«Yeah, he called me this morning» she bit her lip and looked at him with an odd expression on her face. Mickey suddenly felt quite suspicious about her kindness.

«What?»

She was clearly torn between her concern for her little brother and her sense of guilt for talking about him behind his back. But it lasted just a few seconds: after all, they’ve been through enough shit to learn to see things in prospective quite easily, and in the general picture making Ian feel better was way more important than any embarrassing conversation they were going to have.

«He’s afraid you’re going to leave him»

Mickey felt his heart falling under his shoes.

«What the fuck!» the raising of his tone at the end of the sentence, as his anger was raising more and more in him, transformed what was a question in a statement of pure indignation.

Fiona couldn’t help but smile a little at his reaction. He was so involved in this, there probably were the same possibilities of him leaving Ian than the rest of the Gallaghers.

«He’s embarrassed to talk about it with you. You know… Meds side-effects.»

Mickey looked at Fiona in the eyes for several moments with a confused expression painted on his face. He didn’t understand. She raised an eyebrow and waited patiently.

He didn’t understand.

She lowered her gaze for a moment on his trousers and then again to his eyes. She coughed a little.

He didn’t understand.

And then he did.

«You’re fucking kidding me!» he shouted, feeling his ears burning.

«Wished I never had to have this conversation» she muttered. She sighed and passed a hand in her hair with an exasperated expression on her face «he’s freaking out about it, and I don’t know what to tell him, because I know it’s stupid but I don’t want him to feel stupid and stop talking to me about shit, and you are the only one who could reassure him properly but since he refuses to talk to you, you can’t do anything about it, because of the fucking rule and…»

Her phone started vibrating and they both looked at it like it had red hair and green puppy eyes and a pink beautiful mouth which from time to time used to say a lot of idiotic things, like Mickey leaving him because he couldn’t get it hard.

 

*

 

**Sent to _Fi_ – 12:07**

I can’t believe this is my life now. I can’t fucking jerk off! He’s never gonna deal with this shit! Fuck everything. I hate it, hate it, hate it.

**Sent to _Ian_ – 12:10**

I SWEAR TO GOD FIRECROTCH IF YOU DON’T CUT THIS SHIT NOW I’LL COME THERE AND CUT IT FOR YOU.

**Sent to _Ian_ – 12:11**

AND FOR IT I MEAN YOUR DICK. SO YOU CAN BLAME ME FOR THAT AND DON’T HAVE TO WORRY ANYMORE. FUCKING IDIOT, YOU ARE.

**Sent to _Fi_ – 12:14**

...Mick? What the hell are you doing with Fiona’s phone?

**Sent to _Ian_ – 12:15**

Shouting at you since I can’t do it with mine until you start a fucking conversation. Which you should have, by the way, instead of talking about your dick with your sister, you gross coward.

**Sent to _Fi_ – 12:16**

I can’t believe she fucking told you!

**Sent to _Ian_ – 12:15**

I can’t believe you fucking didn’t! What the hell, Ian? Seriously?

**Sent to _Fi_ – 12:16**

I don’t wanna talk about it. You can’t make me.

**Sent to _Ian_ – 12:15**

You’re fucking right, I can’t. If I could I would have already punched you in the face. But listen to me, fuckhead. I don’t give a shit about your dick. Don’t get me wrong, you know I love it, I love everything about it, everywhere you decide to put it. But, fuck, it’s just a dick! You think I would go through all this because of a dick? I came out because of a dick? I came looking for you because of a dick? I write fucking love letters because of a dick? It’s a powerful dick, man, but not so powerful! It’s its owner I do everything for. Don’t you fucking dare forget that. After all we’ve been through, don’t you fucking dare.

**Sent to _Ian_ – 12:20**

Have I been clear?

**Sent to _Fi_ – 12:23**

Fi, take the phone back. And delete the messages without reading them, please?

 

*

 

Fiona looked at Mickey sympathetically. The guy was a wreck. He was breathing heavily and his blue eyes were shining in frustration and angst. He didn’t know what to do more to convince Ian he was there for him, he was committed, he was involved, he was not just giving his ass. Ian had his heart in his hands since more time Mickey was willing to admit, and yet Ian didn’t even know. He didn’t believe it.

Mickey thought about all the times Ian tried to chat with him or cuddle him or kiss him, before he ran away, and Mickey was always trying to lamely push him away. _It’s just sex_ , he used to repeat to himself. _It’s just sex_ , _it’s just sex._

It fucking wasn’t. Never been just sex.

He looked at Fiona, for the first time without shame nor walls.

«We have to go to a place» he croaked, his voice low but determined. 

 

*

 

Fiona didn’t know why she was there too. She could have just left her phone to Mickey and let the two idiots handle this by themselves. But oddly enough, it seemed like Mickey wanted her here. A little moral support, she figured, while she took a drag of her cigarette and passed it back to Mickey, next to her on the the hood of the car, parked under Ian’s window.

They’ve been there for half an hour, and Ian didn’t noticed them yet, nor he texted or called anymore. Fiona didn’t know what his plan was, but it looked like Mickey was determined to stay still in that very spot until Ian casually decided to look out the window. She pretended to ignore how extremely romantic and sweet this was, and either focused on the potentially and logistically failure of the plan.

Not that she would dare to tell him, obviously.

They kept passing the cigarette back and forth, and for a while no one said a word. There was the sun on their heads and winter was finally taking a break. Air was far from warm, but it was bearable, and it was kind of relaxing, staying in that little bubble of silence, waiting for their _person_ to give them hope.

She felt her phone vibrating in her hands after a few minutes.

 

**Sent to _Fi_ – 13:15**

He’s still with u?

**Sent to _Ian_ – 13:18**

Yes. And you owe him an apology, Ian. He’s in it for the long run and you fucking know it, kiddo.

**Sent to _Fi_ – 13:23**

Since when you’re on his side?

**Sent to _Ian_ – 13:24**

Since he’s on your side.

 

*

 

«Hey» his voice was harsh. She could tell he was fighting against tears

«Hey, kiddo»

«You know you shouldn’t have done it, right?»

Fiona sighed, feeling Mickey tense next to her.

«No, I don’t know, Ian. Because really, he deserved to know and he was the only one who could help you and anyway, I was too coward and too worried to tell you how stupid you are being about all this fucking matter and I feel like I’m walking on eggs with you and maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should call out all your shit and just do what I used to do best, be a fucking big sister and tell you to man the fuck up. But I think I’ll let him have the honor because, honestly, I’m done talking about your dick.» She throw the phone to Mickey and smirked at him knowingly. «I’ll just go eat something and do my business for a while»

«Ian» he basically growled into the phone «Enough with this bullshit, man!»

When the other side remained silent, he felt a sudden dejection cover his eyes with a wet veil. He felt years of rejections and silences and hidden emotions and pretending and lies and playing being tough and acting like he didn’t care when he cared the most, and hiding and feeling so damn scared, all on his shoulders, on Ian’s shoulders, all the times he didn’t kiss him when he wanted to, all the times he didn’t hold his hand, all the times he put his clothes on right after and left without a word, all the times Ian tried to look him in the eyes and he didn’t let him, all the times he fucked someone else, or Ian fucked someone else, to make it appear like it was something that it wasn’t, or maybe to make it appear like it wasn’t something that it was.

They were paying now that painful game they used to play, but it was over now.

He wasn’t playing anymore.

«I’m not leaving, Ian» he said to the silent line «I will never leave you. I don’t care what you think I’m here for. You know it’s just past insecurities getting into you. You know things are fucking different know. Hell, you knew better then! You always knew. Even when I tried to keep distances, you used to smile like a knowing bastard because you could fucking read through me. Jesus. Are you fucking listening to how gay I am, telling you this shit?»

He felt him chuckle lightly.

«Go to the window» he ordered, his voice steady, almost severe.

When he saw him, still silent, but there, his forehead resting on the glass, his eyes puffy and red from crying, all his fears and insecurities and self-hate showing like a manifesto of the broken on his face, Mickey couldn’t take it anymore. He had to make it better. He needed to make it better, to make himself better.

«I love you, Ian» he whispered, looking him in the eyes, careless of the distance separating them.

«Holy shit»

«Yeah, well, you asked for it»

«Holy fucking shit!»

Mickey rolled his eyes as he saw a grin spreading on Ian’s face. The guy was hardly containing himself from jumping up and down like a fucking pussy.

«Don’t piss yourself» he grumped idly.

«You love me»

«Surprise»

«I though you would never admit it»

«You should know by now you can never predict my stupid life choices»

«Loving me is stupid?»

«Telling you on your sister’s phone while looking at you from outside the window of your hospital room is fucking stupid. And fucking gay, Jesus Christ.»

«I like it»

«Yeah, well. Fucking convenient, right? You’re the one who’s been told»

It was impressive how he could _see_ , but not really, Ian rolling his eyes and sighing with that handsome, unbearable smirk of his.

«I love you too, Mick. You know I do.»

«I fucking know you do but I didn’t want to feel the only one saying it out loud»

«I said I love you a thousand times out loud»

«What the fuck are you talking about»

«I told Lip and Mandy, and Fi, and Carl… And I told you a lot of times while you were sleeping»

«Great. Now I don’t feel so gay anymore. Thank you, Firecrotch»

«Anything for you, Mick»

Mickey could hardly control his grin. And who cared, anyway. He would not be ashamed of being fucking, gloriously happy.

«Mick»

«Yeah, Gallagher»

«What if I won’t be able to… You know»

«Then you’ll be my bitch until we find a solution with your meds»

«But you like bottoming so much»

«Shut the fuck up. You’ll blow me a lot and I’ll fuck you, or we’ll just watch movies and eat shit and smoke and get wasted and live, Ian. Fuck. Who cares! Just get the fuck out of there and come back to me, idiot»

«Okay»

«Okay»

 

*

 

On their way home, Fiona and Mick didn’t talk at all. They were enjoying the relaxed satisfaction of knowing they, for once, did something right. And maybe in that moment, only the other could deeply understand how much they needed that. How much they needed to do something right.

Maybe they were more alike than they thought.

 

When Mickey parked the car in front of Gallagher’s house, he noticed immediately the two men standing on the porch.

Ian had worn that same uniform a thousand times in front of him. When he left, it was impressed in Mickey's brain as his worst nightmare.

 

«We are looking for Ian Gallagher»

 

 

 

 


	6. Day Five (I'm sorry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uncle Sam is a bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, my fellows, it's 3 am in the morning and I lost my desire to live at least two hours ago. It's shitty, it's unedited, and I'm sorry. The title is I'm sorry because I'm sorry.   
> That's what you get.
> 
> I really am sorry.

«He’s not here» Fiona answered calmly, opening the door and letting them in like their presence didn’t bother her at all. Mickey chew his bottom lip, trying hard to be as subtle as she was being. He had the terrifying awareness that he fucking wasn’t.

«Where is he, then» the officer stood strutted, his voice formal and concrete.

Fiona sighed, pondering the options quickly in his head.

«He’s at the psychiatric hospital of South Chicago. He’s been diagnosed with bipolar disorder a month ago, and he’s getting the cure he needs. Why? Do you need my brother to win the war or something?»

«Your brother broke some laws, miss Gallagher. We need to talk to him as soon as possible, and there’s probably going to be a trial. He stole Philip’s Gallagher identity, he stole an helicopter and then he went AWOL. There’re going to be serious consequences»

«It’s so damn moving how much you guys care about my privacy» Lip came out of the kitchen with a bowl of cereals in his hands and Liam in his arms. Fiona smiled at him like he was the fucking sun – she knew if there was someone who could save them from that mess, that was Lip. She ran to him and took Liam in her arms.

«Hipsters!» Liam shouted, pointing at the two men. Mickey coughed to hide a nervous laugh. Fiona shushed him with a grin and took him upstairs, leaving the men to deal with that shit.

«You are Philip Gallagher?»

Lip rolled his eyes and scoffed, taking his wallet out of his back pocket and handing a document to one of the men. He checked it briefly, then eyed confusedly back at him.

«You can bet your patriot ass on it. And let me tell you, I spoke to another pair of yours before, and _now_ I kind of understand why my brother got nuts…»

«Careful, kiddo. You don’t wanna shit with us»

«No, I really don’t. Have more important things to do, man. So let’s get down to business, shall we? My brother stole my identity. Yes. I don’t feel fucking violated. I don’t wanna press charges. It’s my fucking decision, I’m the injured party – and I don’t wanna do anything about it, so let’s move on.»

«There’s still the helicopter issue, and he ran off…»

«Well, you probably didn’t hear my sister before. Ian’s bipolar. And since I’m quite sure you don’t have a clue of what that means, I’m gonna be the smartest of the class and explain it to you: he has manic depression. You know Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hide? One day he’s all energy, the other he can’t get out of bed. His conception of good and wrong becomes blurred, he becomes aggressive, impulsive, blind to common sense. Wild. Uncontrollable. You have to thank your good star he didn’t do any harm to anyone, or to himself all you care, it could have been much worse than that. And I wanna ask you something, gentlemen: do you even attempt to make a selection of the people who enlist in the army or you just take anyone who’s willing to die for your shitty lies? Do you really think it’s not fucking necessary to make some psychological test before taking kids to your stupid camp trainings? Jesus Christ, my brother could have fucking killed himself on your watch!»

Mickey didn’t know when or how, but suddenly Lip seemed like the taller man in the room and the two camo-dressed where looking at him stunned, with no apparent will to debate. Lip was breathing heavily, the angst and frustration of months of worry evaporating from his face.

His little brother, his best friend. His stubborn, strong, ambitious, ginger, patriotic stupid little brother. Gone for weeks without him knowing where or how or whether he would see him again. Without knowing if he was okay or dead in a ditch somewhere. That two shits didn’t know it, and didn’t need to know, but it wasn’t them he was actually blaming.

It was on him.

He always looked after Ian, since they were little. Fiona had to take care of Liam and Debbie and Carl. Ian was his only responsibility.

And he let him leave and he didn’t look for him soon enough, stupidly thinking he was old enough to take care of himself, stupidly believing he needed some time to cope with his broken heart.

It was on him. He was too focused on surviving his stupid first semester in college, and he forgot about the person he probably loved the most in the whole world. What did that say about his emotional unavailability? He felt his eyes sting and he knew he had to play this card and use his emotions to prove a point, because that was the only way he could help his brother, and besides, that was the only way he was able to handle his feelings anyway.

«Do you know there’s always a fucking big bang point when someone suffers from bipolar disorder? It’s hidden in your brain for all your life until something happens and it pops out. He didn’t have it before enlisting. He was fucking fine. So you are not the one asking, sirs. I am asking. What happened? What did you do to my little brother, uh? We all watched Full Metal Jacket, man. The shit you do to this kids is enough to make everyone go fucking crazy. If I were in you, I’d turn the fuck around and leave and never come back, before I make some further research and find out what the hell happened in that weeks my brother stood with you» He sniffed quietly, but didn’t flinch, getting closer and closer to the officers. He was shorter, but it didn’t matter.

«We’ll still need a certificate that proves Ian Gallagher is under psychological treatment, for the record» one of the officers indulged his eyes on Lip for a few seconds more, but it was clear they weren’t sure on how to act anymore. Lip had taken them on the break, and honestly they didn’t even know what really happened to Gallagher during his basic training. They couldn’t risk people to put their nose in their business – _everybody knows what happens in the army stays in the army._

Still, they couldn’t just let it go. There were papers and documents to register and sign - files and archives to update.

That’s when Mickey stepped in. He didn’t even know why he decided to intervene, Lip was handling the situation quite skillfully. But Lip’s words made him think. Ian never talked about the army to him, it was a taboo between them, just like Mickey never talked about the marriage if he could help it. But Mickey knew something happened there. It was that kind of realization you just happen to _know_ , you smell it, you taste it, you feel it rushing in your veins. When the person you love is hurting. When the person you love is broken. When the person you love is hiding scars.

He always thought that big bang moment Lip was talking about was his fault. But now, the possibility something happened while Ian was away sneaked in Mickey’s brain like a cancer and he couldn’t for the life of him get it out. It was stuck.

And it definitely pissed him off.

«Oh you need a fucking certificate, uh? Don’t worry, big guy. We’ll give you a certificate signed by his shrink, okay? We’ll send it to you. Or I’ll take it to you myself, wherever you want. Give me an address. An office? Fucking Afghanistan? It’s fine, whatever. But you stay away from Ian, you hear me? I don’t give a shit who you are and for whom you work. You could be the President himself for all I care. If some of you punks just dares getting close to South Chicago Hospital I swear to God…»

He felt Lip’s hand on his shoulder, and he turned around to fuck him off, but when he met his gaze he closed his mouth hesitantly.

«Come here again in a few days. We’ll give you the certificate and Ian’s doctor number. You can talk to her and verify. Is that enough or do we need to sacrifice a goat to Mars for you to leave my brother alone?» Lip’s voice was forcefully contained, and just slightly sarcastic. He kept his grip on Mickey’s shoulder, so tight it kind of hurt. Mickey didn’t know if it was to stop him or himself.

Probably both.

*

«Fuck» Mickey took a sip of his beer and looked tiredly at the blond Gallagher sitting in front of him at the kitchen table. Fiona was cooking silently.

It had been a fucking long day.

«Ian… Does he talk about it with you?» Lip’s expression was illegible.

Mickey sighed and shook his head.

«Never» he croaked, taking another sip «Do you really think what you said to them?»

Lip rested his forehead on the table, covering his head with his arms and moaning a choked “Fuuuuuuck”. Fiona walked silently to them, resting an hand on his brother’s shoulder and taking the beer from Mickey’s hands.

«There’s only one way to find out» she said, resigned.

«He doesn’t want to talk about it»

She finished the bottle in one gulp.

«No guy ever does»

*

«Good morning, sunshine!»

Mickey smiled and yawned loudly, winning a laugh from the other side of the phone. He rubbed his eyes and looked around wearily, vaguely confused about where he was. It took him a while to recognize Ian’s room.

«Woah, man. What’s with all this goddamn energy?»

«Well, the sun is up, the sky is blue… I jerked off this morning…»

«Thought you couldn’t»

«Turns out if I think about your ass hard enough, something hardens too»

Mickey grinned uncontrollably at that, and was about to reply when he saw Liam looking at him with a peaceful smile from his little bed.

«We can’t have this conversation now» Mickey sighed, raising up and sitting on the edge of the little boy’s bed. Liam reached him with his tiny arms and he couldn’t help but smile playfully at him, letting him sit on his lap.

«Why not?»

«Uhm… Wait, there’s someone who wants to talk with you» he handed the phone to Liam, who took it in his hands with an ecstatic giggle «Do you want to say something to Ian, uh, buddy? Your big ginger balls-breaking brother?»

­Liam seemed to think seriously about it for a moment before exclaiming «Balls!» and giving the phone back to Mickey.

«He’s officially my favourite Gallagher» he commented laughing loudly. He felt Ian giggle, and his heart purred like a fucking cat.

«Why are you at my house?»

«I slept here. I… Well, yesterday we had some shit to deal with your brother and sister and then we got a little wasted and I don’t really like to be at my house or in that bed without you anyway, so I just crashed here.»

«Oh, Mick. You got attached to it! You want to be a Gallagher!»

«Fuck off, bitch. I’m a Milkovich.»

«Well, Milkoviches and Gallaghers mix quite good.»

«Like Jack and orange juice, man.»

«Frank used to say the sa… Wait a second. What shit were you talking about? I didn’t even asked you! What happened?»

Mickey pondered how to deal with this. The day before they played Texas Hold’Em to decide who was gonna spill the beans to Ian, and of course they fucking humiliated him. It had been kind of fun, then.

And now it wasn’t anymore.

«Uhm. Two army guys came asking for you. We handled it. We need a certificate that proves you are where you are, and they’ll leave you alone. No charges.»

He expected that silence. He expected it. He wasn’t surprised.

Then why did he feel the worry eat his lungs, stopping his breath in his throat?

«Uh.» Ian managed to say, his voice suddenly low «Okay.»

Mickey raised an eyebrow.

«Okay?»

«Yeah, it’s fine.»

«It’s not fucking fine, Ian. They wanted to arrest you or some shit!»

«But they didn’t, so it’s fine!»

«I need to know, Ian. Please. I know you don’t wanna talk about it. But I fucking need to know what happened in that shithole.»

There was silence for a long, long time. He felt Ian’s breath burst frantically out of his lips, and he recognized silent tears in it that broke his heart. He didn’t know what to do.

«I’m sorry, Mick» Ian’s voice was a whisper now – the evident desperation in it made Mickey’s skin shiver and his brain roll up in pain.

«Sorry? For what? Ian…»

Mickey looked at the phone in a silent shock. He didn’t even react when Liam took it from his hands and started playing with it happily.

He felt his eyes tickle and tried to swallow down the tears – he was actually terrified.

This wasn’t good. This – Ian was not one who refused to talk. He was naturally communicative, open-hearted like a fucking lady…

This wasn’t good.

 

 *

 

**To _Firecrotch_ – 9:54 **

I know it’s against the rules. But I can’t… Fuck. Ian, I’m worried sick. Talk to me, please.

**To ** _Firecrotch_**  – 10:10 **

Ian? Just tell me you are okay.

**To ** _Firecrotch_** – 10:16 **

This is definitely a fucking dumbass idea. I’m pushing you. I’m sorry. This is the last message, promise. I’ll wait. Okay? I’ll wait. I just wanted… No.

 

**To ** _Firecrotch_** – 21:48 **

Jesus Christ, Ian.

 

**To _Mick_  – 22:43 **

I’m sorry.

**To ** _Firecrotch_** – 22:48 **

You’re alive. Fuck you, man. You don’t get how fucking worried I am, do you? Why are you fucking sorry. Talk to me.

**To _Mick_  – 22:51 **

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…

 

**To ** _Firecrotch_** – 22:52**

Ian…

**To ** _Firecrotch_** – 22:55**

It’s okay, man. I promise. It’s gonna be fine… It’s gonna be fucking fine.

 


	7. Day Eight (little brother)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM EXTREMELY TERRIBLY SORRY.   
> Seriously.   
> But I have a good excuse: first, I'm in the middle of my exam session and it sucks and I don't have time.  
> Second, it was my birthday a few days ago and my boyfriend came to visit and he stayed here a week so again I had to cuddle and have sex and I didn't have time to do anything else.  
> Third... there's no third, hope this is enough to cover the apology jamsession. 
> 
> Hope you guys like this chapter. I'll post hopefully again in a week or so, please don't be mad and please don't kill me and I swear it's gonna be fiiiiiine in the end!
> 
> Love you!
> 
> Em

 «Hello?»

«Mhm, doc. I’m Mickey. Mh – Ian’s…»

«Oh, Mickey! Hello, dear. What do you need?»

Mickey hesitated, biting his bottom lip and swearing silently in his mind. He took a puff of the joint he was smoking to calm down.

It wasn’t fucking working.

«I haven’t heard from Ian in two days.»

«Well, you know the rules. He’s not forced to call any of you if he doesn’t feel like it»

«Yeah, I know _that_. But it’s not… It’s not like him, okay? I just wanted to know if he was alright»

He heard the woman sigh just a little, but Mickey couldn’t tell if it was of frustration or tenderness.

«He had a big panic attack two days ago, around 10 pm. Then he was quite low. But I wouldn’t say it was  a depressive phase linked to his bipolar disorder. He was just upset. Meds are working, Mickey. He is better. He talks and eats and goes to therapy group and writes and watches tv. But that doesn’t mean if something bad happens he won’t react badly. He’s still a human being.»

«I know what upset him»

«I know you do»

«I asked him about the army»

Another sigh.

«Yeah, you did»

«You know what happened in that shit hole, don’t you?»

«Oh, Mickey. I thought we liked each other. If you think I would ever tell you anything Ian told me during his therapy sessions, you insult me.»

Mickey rolled his eyes and forced himself to contain his exasperation. Yes, he happened to miraculously like the woman, but there was a line to it and that line was drawn when she started working against him.

Maybe she didn’t understand what she was getting into.

«Listen, bitch. You are dealing with his shit since when? A week? Ish? I’ve been dealing with it for months. And I will keep doing it for fucking ever, so I need to know what I’m fighting against! How bad is that? How do I fix it?» Mickey’s voice cracked. He wanted to sound mad, bitter and slightly threatening, but he knew it was clear to her that he actually was just desperate, worried, loving.

He couldn’t help it – once again, Ian Gallagher made him weak, and vulnerable, and soft. He hated it, of course he did. But he didn’t have the time or resources or even the strength to fight it. He had other priorities right now than lying to himself.

«You are right. You are going to deal with this for a long time, and I know you truly are the one who’ll help him the most. Your heart is in the right place, Mickey. I admire your determination in keeping safe what you love. But right now you have to respect the fact that even if you see him broken, even if you think he’s on the ground and can’t stand up without you, Ian is still a man. Ian is still a person. He deserves your trust, and deserves to get better with his own strengths. We are giving him all the support he needs, but we are not pushing him nor patronizing him in any way. Human brain is mysterious, Mickey. I’ve learned that with this diseases, what you need to do is fix the brain without breaking the soul. Ian needs to gain self-trust, needs to know he still is himself, the strong, determined, smart young boy you used to know. Just think if everyone you love thought you are not able to take care of yourself. If they thought you were weak and needy like a child. Wouldn’t it be more hurtful than the disease itself?»

_Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t fucking_

«Can I take an appointment?»

«You mean, to talk about Ian?»

«No… - Mickey pressed his palms on his eyes and sniffed lightly, not caring the slightest anymore if she noticed he was fucking sobbing -  To talk about me.»

 

*

 

«So let me get this straight: you’re going to therapy?»

Mickey didn’t bother to give Lip more than a grunt as an answer. The dude was looking at him with a disbelieved expression Mickey would have managed to stand if it wasn’t for the amused devilish little smile he had under it. Like he had something in his mind Mickey already knew he wouldn’t like.

«That’s fucking brilliant!» Lip commented, not very subtle.

«I don’t get why is this your business at all»

«It’s my business because I’m coming with you»

Mickey looked at him scandalized, raising an eyebrow and shaking his arms in front of him.

«What the fuck are you talking about? If I had to do couple therapy it would be with your brother not with you, asshole! Fuck off!»

«Not coming _to therapy_ with you, idiot. I’m coming with you to the hospital so while you talk with the shrink, and you manage to take her out of her fucking office, I’ll sneak in and find out what happened to Ian»

Mickey thought about it for a minute, pondering the options. He had the upsetting and quite noisy awareness that Lip’s suggestion was not only illegal – that really wasn’t a problem – but it also went completely and unapologetically against everything the woman said to him that morning.

It was definitely the worst idea.

It was disrespectful of Ian’s will and privacy.

It was them not trusting him with his own businesses.

It was him letting down the entire concept of being in a communicating and open-hearted relationship.

It basically screamed he was the worst boyfriend ever.

«I’m in» he said, without thinking about it twice.

It would have been too painful.

 

*

 

«Hello, Mickey. Get in. make yourself comfortable»

Mickey nodded and entered the room without saying a word. _Make yourself comfortable_ , what a bunch of bullshit. The attempt of making himself comfortable, even if there was the slightest possibility he actually could get himself comfortable, would just fail miserably by only hearing that stupid phrase.

If you are comfortable you surely don’t need someone to tell you to get comfortable.

Anyhow, he sat down on the edge of the chair in front of her big wooden desk.

«What do you want to talk about?» she asked gently, eyeing him with nonchalance.

When Mickey asked an appointment to see her, he did it because he realized that at the same time Ian was fighting so desperately to find his own strength, Mickey was fighting just as desperately to find a way to be weak. He _needed_ to be weak.

He needed to break down. He needed to fall.

Because standing, in that moment, without Ian, and without knowing what was with Ian, and feeling so damn useless all the time, checking the phone every hour, eating alone and watching his baby from far away… Standing. Was so exhausting. And pointless.

So that was his chance to be weak. And if in the meantime, he could also use it to find out what happened to his lover, then maybe, just maybe, he would not feel so ashamed of it. Maybe, it was useful to be weak. It was useful to fall.

He wanted to cry, but it was too weird to do it in front of her.

So instead, he stack to the original plan, and took a cigarette to his lips, knowing what was coming next.

«Mickey, dear. I’m sure you already know you can’t smoke here»

«Can we talk outside, then? I can’t do this without a fucking cigarette»

«Of course. There’s a nice garden behind this building. Let’s take a walk.»

 

*

 

Mickey didn’t know how he ended up sobbing on a bench talking about that day everything fell apart. He wouldn’t dare to admit he had waited for that moment since it happened – he wouldn’t dare to admit the devastation, and humiliation, and silent constant monstrous death he felt in his heart since it happened.

 And to take it all out – _to take it all out_ –  was so fucking freeing.

«We looked at each other. We looked at each other and it seemed like we were dying. Right there. Not because of the gun… Not because of him... We were killing each other with that look. I was praying, praying him to… To just… Go. And he didn’t, he kept looking at me, crying, and bleeding, and I felt like I’d rather die than look at the emptiness and desolation on his face. And he did too, I just knew it. I knew if I waited a second longer, he would stand up and just let him shoot him. Because she was… And I… I took control. I had to. I had to save him. But then, again when he came to _talk_ … I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t even think. I couldn’t… Look at him in the eyes. See the emptiness. It was the thing that scared me the most in all my life. Seeing that eyes and feeling like they just stood silent and drowning in a pain _I caused_. I did it. It’s on me. It’s my fault… I don’t even know what happened to him and still I know it’s my fault. I know he needed me to do something but I wasn’t… I couldn’t… And now people come looking for him and I know there’s something I’m missing and the only part I know, the only part I know is that I am the one to blame. For being a faggot, for falling for him, for not being able to admit it, for letting him go, for being too scared to say something when I knew there was something to say…»

She didn’t talk. She didn’t write down notes. She didn’t even look at him.

She was good at her job.

She took a cigarette and lit it up. Letting smoke escape slowly and elegantly from her lips.

He kept talking, eyes on his hands, hands on his lap. Tears blowing.  Sometimes he looked at her, but she was never catching his gaze. It felt quite right.

After he calmed down, they stood silently for a while, and it was nice too. Mickey surprised himself not to care about what he just did, what he just said. He was surrounded by trees and grass and there was silence around them, and that woman never flinched at what he had to say. She wasn’t shocked, she wasn’t compassionate, she wasn’t disgusted, she wasn’t judging.

So he figured, maybe he didn’t have to judge himself as well. Maybe, for once, he could just let himself be.

«Do you think he will tell me?»

She looked at him for the first time, and she was smiling. Just a little. She put her hand on his hand and squeezed it gently, for a second.

«Yes, Mickey, I think he will»

«How do you know?»

«He’s not keeping you away because he doesn’t trust you. He just wants to save himself. He wants to know you’ll be here waiting, not because you feel you owe him something, not because you feel guilty. He doesn’t want to be something you have to fix. He wants to be something that makes you happy just as you make him. He loves you.»

«Yeah. That still doesn’t make any sense to me»

«We have to work on this low self-esteem, Mickey»

«Fuck off»

 

*

 

Lip knew his brother was just a few meters from him, and the awareness was just eating him alive. He knew he couldn’t see him – he just had to stick to the plan.

The place lacked of any security, he knew that. He did his homework before coming – the rooms had a camera and there were alarms on the windows, you know, to keep everyone in. But nothing was done to keep anyone out. He just walked to dr. Winehouse office like it was his own.

He looked left.

He looked right.

He stack what once was a simple bobby pin he took from Debbie – but then modified and reinforced into a perfect magic key – in the keyhole and coughed a few times while trying it. It wasn’t the first time, it wouldn’t be the last.

He felt it _click_ under a few seconds.

He looked left. He looked right.

He sneaked in.

 

*

 

**To _Asshole_ 16:07**

Done.

**To Douchebag16:10**

See you in the car.

 

*

 

When Mickey sat in the driver seat, Lip was in the car, smoking a joint. His eyes were red. Mickey felt his heart fall under his shoes so fast he thought that’s what people feel when they have an heart attack.

Lip was looking at his phone, his face pale, his expression glassy, like he wasn’t really here, but somewhere far away in time and place, somewhere he could have saved his little brother from all this.

«I don’t want to know» Mickey whispered, not even hearing himself.

Lip didn’t reacted with surprise or disbelief. He just nodded.

His eyes were stuck in a mental snapshot he just couldn’t get out of his head.

He didn’t know if he was glad or upset the files were so schematic and so lacking on details. He didn’t know if he wanted to know more. He had thrown up a few times just with the abbreviated version. He had this words dancing in his head one after the other, but he just couldn’t link them with Ian’s sweet freckled smile.

_Post traumatic stress syndrome._

His little brother.

_Physical and psychological violence._

His little brother.

_Sexual abuse._

His little brother.

_Drugs use._

His little brother.

**His little brother.**

*****

**To _Mickey_ – 21:44**

Doc says she talked to you today. You were here. In this building. And I didn’t know. I could have saw you, or touched you. I wanted to. I’m sorry, Mick. I’m not ready. I’m sorry I let you worry. I’m sorry…

**To _Firecrotch_ – 21:48 **

Quit apologizing. I’m here, Ian. I will always be here.

**To _Mickey_ – 21:54**

…What if I’m not the one you’re waiting for? What if the Ian you wanted is not here anymore? What if I’m someone else? Someone worse?

**To _Firecrotch_ – 21:58**

You will always be worth the wait. I know you, Ian. People change, that’s right, we are not the ones we were when we met each other. But some things never change.

**To _Mickey_ – 22:02**

Which things?

**To _Firecrotch_ – 22:03**

Us.

 


	8. Day Nine (try me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> «Go where you have to go, Ian. Some day you will fucking realize you are not alone in this relationship. I’m not leaving if your dick doesn’t function and I’m not leaving if you’re broken and I’m not leaving if you have seen hell and back and now you can’t see simple obvious things under your nose, like me loving you more than anything in my entire life. Just try me. I fucking dare you»

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know. This was supposed to go in a direction and then it didn't.  
> Hope it doesn't bore you too much - it's just. I needed to write something that didn't make me cry. So I just put a lot of fluffiness and decided that we will all cry in the next chapter instead. 
> 
> I'm very bad at sticking to the plan - I'm scared this thing is starting to not make any sense anymore.

Mickey woke up suddenly, feeling his body shake like an earthquake at the insistent buzzing of his phone on the other side of the bed, where Ian was supposed to be.

He lazily wondered how was it possible for his body to react so promptly to Ian’s needs, even before his mind had acknowledged them. It was some kind of mysterious connection – he didn’t even have to look at the screen. The way his fingers where trembling, he just _knew_.

«Hey»

«Hey» Mickey hadn’t heard Ian’s voice in three days. It was like breathing again after staying under water several seconds too long.  

«I missed you» Ian sounded unsure, his voice full of words he wouldn’t say, and Mickey wouldn’t want to hear.

«Your fucking choice» he cracked, bitterly.

«You were busting my balls» Ian joked, his voice a little stronger.

«Oh, that’s how you call worrying about you nowadays. Good to know, ungrateful little shit. I had to go to therapy to cure my abandonment issues»

«So you _did_ go to therapy! God, doc wouldn’t tell me anything. She told me you two had a talk and she just left it there and I couldn’t get anything out of her»

«Welcome to my shitty world»

«What did you talk about?»

«What makes you think I would ever tell you? _You_ never tell me when I ask»

Mickey felt Ian hesitate, and he bit his bottom lip, afraid to have gone too far.

«I’m sorry» Ian whispered, after a while.

Mickey sighed.

«We talked about the day my father found us. And about you, mostly» he said, willing to focus the conversation on himself if it would protect Ian from his memories, whatever they were about.

«Me? What about me?»

«She didn’t sell you, man, calm down. We talked about my side of the whole fucking story. A lot of gay pep-talks I’m not going to repeat ever again»

Lie. He was going again this week.

«Hey, have you heard from Lip recently?»

«Why?»

«I call him every day, you know. But yesterday he was so weird. Almost burst crying and he kept telling me he loved me so much. It was odd. We get emotional sometimes but not like this. I usually call Fiona if I want some real hardcore emotional shit show»

Mickey swallowed loudly. He was perfectly capable of selling a good lie – that been said, it was fucking hurtful to feel Ian’s concern and ignore it. He snorted to hide his silent guilt.

«Oh, you Gallaghers are so gay. I don’t know anything about it, man. He probably just misses you, you know»

«I know that, but he shows it with lame jokes and long anecdotes of our old pranks, most of the times. Well, don’t worry about it. I’ll send Carl or Debbie to investigate»

«So what’s my role, uh?» He smirked at the phone like it had ginger hair.

«What do you mean?»

«Lip’s for the jokes, Fiona for the emotional stuff. The little two are your insiders in the family secrets. What do I do for ya?»

Ian thought about it for a minute.

«You give me peace»

«That sounds so boring»

«That’s because you are a fucking idiot. If I need to escape from my mind, I call Lip. If I need to just smash my face against the reality of my situation, if I need to really, really take it all out and look at it and just cry, I call Fiona. But you. You are the one who keeps it all together. You keep my feet on the ground, you steady my breath. You remind me of who I am, why I’m here, and why I’m gonna get out of here in five days. Why I’m fighting and why I’m gonna keep fighting. That’s your role. Try and say it’s boring»

«Well if you put it that way…» Mickey scoffed to hide his grin, like Ian could see it.

Ian chuckled a little, and Mickey wanted to reach his lips through the phone and just kiss him like he was the only source of oxygen left on earth.

«I need to do something before I get out of here.» Ian’s voice was slow again, and tentative, and worried «I really need to do something, but I’m kind of chickening out about it.»

«If you screwed someone in your therapy group I swear to God I’m gonna kill you, Gallagher»

«How sweet it is to go back to “Gallagher”. It’s reminiscing of our first lovely encounters. We always got along so nicely.»

« You’re a dick»

«I take it as a compliment»

«Stop enjoying so much every fucking thing I say, it’s annoying. I was trying to make a point»

«About not screwing my therapy group pals?»

Mickey grunted in response.

«You don’t need to make a point about it. You _are_ the point. Your concern is hilarious as much as it is completely unnecessary. Now, I was talking about something serious»

«Well get to it, smart ass. I have a life, you know. Things to do, people to see…»

«Oh, please. You are going to the Alibi to get shitfaced and pine over me»

Mickey rolled his eyes.

«You know I know all this little games you are playing are just supposed to distract the both of us from this “thing” you need to do? Let me tell you something man. It’s not fucking working.»

«I… Shit. Well. What I need to do is talk to you. About the army» Ian sounded so scared, and so defeated, Mickey suddenly regretted insisting on the matter. He sort of didn’t want to know. He kept seeing Lip’s face, his eyes lost in someone else’s nightmare. It was terrifying.

«Doc told you that?»

«No. Well, she thinks so, but she didn’t told me. I just need to do it. We talked about it, I was panicking and I wanted to call you but in the same time I was scared everything would change between us, and between me and my family. I don’t want to be treated differently. It’s like coming out all over again, but this closet is so much shittier you couldn’t even imagine it. I still can’t live with it on a daily basis, you would just go nuts. But I can’t get out of here without you knowing. I need a support team who knows what monsters I’m fighting against»

«Support team?»

«Yeah, you know, like the therapy group I have here. It’s easier to accept what happened if you can share the burden with other people who won’t judge you.»

A heavy silent fell between them. Ian knew Mickey was chewing his bottom lip just as Mickey knew Ian was tapping his fingers.

When Mickey spoke, his voice was low, but surprisingly steady.

«It’s so bad? Worse than everything we’ve already been through?»

«It’s bad. Not worse… Well. I don’t know. It’s just. Bad»

Mickey felt him sniff lightly.

«Ok. We can deal with bad. We’ve dealt with bad all our lives»

 

 

«I can’t do this on the phone.» Ian sighed. He covered his eyes with his free hand, but the monsters were inside, he couldn’t throw them out. « I… need to go. I’ll catch up with you later»

«Ian…»

«I’m sorry Mick»

«Stop saying you’re sorry! Talk to me»

«I can’t do this on the phone»

«Then don’t. Just don’t leave me like this»

Alone. Without your voice to give me peace. To give me something to hold on to.

«Mickey?»

«Ian?»

«Do you love me?»

They smiled, just a little.

«No matter what»

«Good»

«Not that good, man. You keep trying to get rid of me»

«It’s the opposite. I’m so fucking scared you’re gonna walk away from me»

«I’m not going to walk away, Ian!» There was this acid that ran through Mickey’s veins each and every time Ian showed to have doubts about his involvement in their relationship. Mickey knew Ian didn’t fully believed he loved him, and he didn’t blame him, really. At the beginning. He let him go, he let him run away to the fucking army and from that moment on, Mickey felt like his Ian, his sweet, brave, tender little man has lost all his innocence, all his faith. He was so changed, and yet so the same, Mickey felt like being in a carousel, he didn’t know where to look, didn’t know what he would see when they would finally stand still.

And it was on him – that he couldn’t stand. He just couldn’t stand the walls he had been building all around him, and the fact that Ian was too tired to wreck them, too suspicious to see through them.

«You don’t know what you’re talking about»

«I fucking know what I’m talking about. You and me. That’s what I’m talking about. I don’t give a fuck about anything else, past or present or future. You can chicken out and be a pussy for as much as you wish, I’ll still be here waiting to kick your ass. You’re not getting rid of me, Gallagher. If you think I’ll get scared and ran away, you don’t know me as much as I thought»

«I have to go»

«Brilliant»

«I’ll write you later»

«I’m looking forward to it»

«Check your mail»

«Sure will do»

Ian sighed. He seemed exhausted. Like that little spat had taken away from his all his strength.

«Stop being mad, please»

«Stop acting like I’m not in it as much as you are!»

«Hold habits die hard»

«Bullshit. I was always here. I was always into it as much as you were. I was just hiding it better than you»

«Well good job, here’s what you get for it»

«I’ve done a fine job in the opposite direction lately, but you seem to forget it quite easily»

«Mick…»

«Go where you have to go, Ian. Some day you will fucking realize you are not alone in this relationship. I’m not leaving if your dick doesn’t function and I’m not leaving if you’re broken and I’m not leaving if you have seen hell and back and now you can’t see simple obvious things under your nose, like me loving you more than anything in my entire life. Just try me. I fucking dare you»

Click. Ian stared at the phone in his hands, tears streaming down his face.

 

*

 

«He hates me»

«Oh, Ian, don’t you dare saying something so stupid»

Ian flinched, looking in disbelief at the woman in the white coat.

«Ouch. Really? You really punched me, doc? Aren’t you supposed to listen without judging?»

«Nope. I’m here to make you feel bad about the stupid things you think in your life.»

«You’re good at it»

«Thank you. Go back to the matter in question, sweetie»

Ian took his head in his hands and pulled his hair hard, trying to distract his body from the pain in his head. It didn’t work.

«I told him I had to tell him about the army»

«Okay…»

«And I told him I was scared he would walk away after I told him»

«Oh, Ian, sweetheart.»

«I know, I know! I’m an idiot. He was so hurt»

«Of course he was. That guy would run to hell and back for you and you keep treating him like he doesn’t give a shit»

Ian reemerged from his hands and looked at her desperately.

«This is still so new to me.» he chocked,  trying to explain «I spent years hoping for this to happen. I spent years looking for any sign of interest, interpreting his smiles and silences, pushing him over his limits. I got used to the fact that I would never just be openly loved by him. I knew he did, though. But it hurt anyway knowing he was ashamed of it. That he would hide it from everyone, me included. And now… It’s all so different, and when it happened I was manic and I didn’t think through it, I just went for it without thinking about it twice. These were the first days I _really_ started realizing how much he’s changed. It surprises me in the best kind of way, but I find it hard to adjust my feelings to it. I’m still scared, I can’t help it»

«You’ll learn, Ian. Don’t worry about it too much. But try to think about the whole thing from his point of view. You will realize why it’s so important for him to know you believe he will be there at the end of the battle»

«I know he blames himself. That’s why I’m so scared to tell him. He will never forgive himself for letting me go»

«And did you?»

«Did I what?»

«Forgive him. For marrying her, for letting you go. You told me your first encounter was quite bitter, and then you just fell back to your old rhythms without addressing the matter. Have you forgiven him?»

«It was not about forgiving him, I suppose… it was more like realizing there was nothing I should forgive him for. It wasn’t his fault. He was a victim»

She smiled to him, reassuringly.

«You’re a good guy, Ian. Both of you are.»

«Thank you. Help me solve this mess?»

«You told me you used him as your diary»

«Yeah, at the beginning. I stopped after one day»

«Start again. Write him everything you need to say. Everything you ever needed to say to him. I think the most important thing is for you to go out of this place with the ground and the possibility to start fresh. Leave here all your past burdens. Take it all out while you can afford it without putting yourself in emotional danger. _Talk_ , Ian. It’s the first rule, remember?»

«Yeah, doc. I’ll write him»

«Good guy»

«And yet so fucked up»

«The best ones always are, dear»

«It’s your professional opinion?»

«Definitely»

 

*

 

That afternoon, Mickey got drunk. Drunk and bitter. He was dragging himself home, heavy feet and heavy heart and mind under the sole of his shoes.

He knew Ian wasn’t used to it – he knew Ian would always feel surprised by it.

But he had loved him for years. He didn’t realize it either until Ian left. But when he _did_ realize it, it was like this thing, this powerful and invincible and mighty thing he felt was always so there, just hidden under a veil of thick denial. It was there occupying all his free spots, shifting and changing form and color in his body, taking advantage of his mind as it wished, and he couldn’t hide from it, and it couldn’t hide it anymore.

It was so _there_. Mickey knew it would never leave. No matter how hard it got, that thing always took him right back in Ian’s arms, and Ian in his. It was stronger than fate and it fought and won against everything and everyone, his father included. It was nature and it was instinct and it was chemistry and it was light and it was body, and it was patience, and it was _perfection_.

Perfection like Ian’s hands on him, or his eyes sparkling in the morning when he blinks himself awake. Perfection like their witty insults and fast spats, followed by slow, peaceful, hungry sex. Perfection like their bodies filling each other like they’re supposed to exist only in one. Perfection like feeling his breath on his neck while they sleep. Perfection like hearing his voice and feeling his whole body relax immediately.

Perfection.

 

*

 

  **To Mick 11:07 pm**

I’m a prick. You’re right. I’m writing you the longest sappiest saddest mail _ever_.

I love you, Mick.

 

**To Firecrotch 11:10 pm**

Damn Ian I want to touch you

**To Mick 11:12 pm**

Drunk already?

 

**To Firecrotch 11:15 pm**

Your fault. You don’t trust me. I wanna kick your ass and then fuck you

 

**To Mick 11:18 pm**

I shouldn’t find it so absolutely adorable, should I?

**To Firecrotch 11:20 pm**

You’re adorable, I’m just bearable. Hardly. God. I need to get laid, I am so fucking pathetic.

 

**To Mick 11:22 pm**

You are perfect, Mick. And I trust you, I swear I’m gonna show you. Tomorrow morning check your mail. And then come here. I need to see you, even if through a glass.

 

**To Firecrotch 11:24 pm**

I’m scared.

 

**To Mick 11:25 pm**

I’m scared, too. We can be scared together.

 

**To Firecrotch 11:26 pm**

You’re so gay, Gallagher.

 

**To Mick 11:28 pm**

You told me I’m adorable, Mick.

 

**To Firecrotch 11:30 pm**

Oh, fuck you. Fuck me. Don’t know what I’m saying. I’m off to sleep.

 

**To Mick 11:31 pm**

Goodnight, big guy.


	9. Day Ten (object: no object)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's happening (unbeta-ed, as usual)

From: Ian Gallagher; [ian.gallagher@gmail.com](mailto:ian.gallagher@gmail.com)

To: Mickey Milkovich;  [mick.vich@live.com](mailto:mick.vich@live.com)

Object: [no object]

 

So here I am, giving you everything I’ve got.

It’s not pretty. But you don’t need pretty, do you? You wouldn’t even know what to do with pretty. There’s never been pretty in our lives.

But this… This is different. It’s ugly. And dirty. And it hurts.

I don’t want to hurt you.

I’m so fucking scared I’m gonna kill you with this. I don’t want to hurt you, I’m so sorry, Mick…

Breathe. And breathe.

 

 

I was fourteen, and I thought I was in love. He was older. Richer. Sweet. Weak. He bought me stuff. Gifts we exchanged randomly in the hidden corners of the shop. I thought it was romantic, that little reckless impossible love story.

He was married, and he had two kids.

He wasn’t mine, but I didn’t care – I was never used to own anything, anyway. It was just fitting.

Lip was mad about it – he didn’t understand, but I didn’t care. I thought he was just another little obstacle, that our love would survive. I believed we were meant to be, or some stupid shit like that. He used to tell me that stuff a lot. Now that I think about it, he was probably just trying to justify himself with himself, blaming fate instead of his egotistical decisions.

 

Then you came into my life, and it was just… different. It was stronger. Unpredictable. Dangerous. It was pure adrenaline, it was young and wild and it was hands touching and hearts colliding and for the first time I felt like I cared for all the little things around it. Around us. Between us. Against us.

It was another secret, another shame.

But a good one.

So I started to look back and see things differently. I started realizing all of a sudden, that I didn’t like my reflection in the mirror after Kash had put his hands on me. I felt dirty, and not in a good way. Linda was a pain in the ass, but she was a good woman and a good mother. She didn’t deserve what we were doing to her.

She didn’t deserve a coward.

Did I? Did I deserved someone like Kash? Was he all I could ever manage to get?

Was he enough?

When you start wandering if someone is enough, it’s just blatantly clear that he’s not.

But you were in the picture and suddenly it was all I cared. I never felt closer to anyone in so little time. I’m not talking about the “love at first sight” bullshit, I know it would be just lame poetry. No. It was chemistry, it was smell, it was, I don’t know, instinct.

I _felt_ it. I _knew_ it. I _needed_ it. And I wanted it. So, so, badly.

I started thinking there was more to sex and love than a quickie behind the shop, in a silent alley at night, on an abandoned rooftop. There was more in your eyes and in the way we shared our cigarettes and in the way silence settled between us so often and yet so naturally.

But you were a sneaky, scared little one. I was haunting for meaning and feeling and you just wanted to survive. I wanted to be spoiled – you wanted to just be.

And for the first time, I wanted something to be mine.

 

Then something snapped. I think it was your jealousy. I knew I had a shot, then. I saw a crack on your walls and I dug. And you gave in. Just a little.

God, it was so worth it. It was like Christmas day and Thanksgiving and summer all together. It was simple and it was little but it was _real_ , and mine, and perfect.

I think about that night a lot. We slept together and I touched you during the night, lightly, careful not to wake you. I touched you everywhere. I was so high, and so happy. It was the last time I’ve been truly, completely thoughtless. You were there, we were there, _together_ , you let me in, you accepted me, Ian Gallagher, and not just my body, pale skin and freckles and red hair. You wanted me there. You enjoyed it. You smiled.

I didn’t even have time to recognize it, to name it.

You didn’t even have time to deny it.

 

She was naked on you and I felt like throwing up, I felt like dying, and you were looking at me, and it seemed like you were dying to. We died that day. That happiness, that innocence, that something we had the night before. We almost had it all. For a second, just one, we were almost brushing it with our fingertips, and it was already gone.  

I dream about you two together. A lot. I feel jealousy burn my inner organs and I know I shouldn’t I know she raped you, and I know you had to do it to save us both. But I see your bodies in my sleep and I feel like dying again, and it tortures me.

I think it started then. I felt a click in my head. A voice, low but steady, that said _here you are, motherfucker. Nothing will ever be the same. You thought you could have him? He’s not yours. Never has been, never will._ _You deal with your life and he will deal with his. There’s nothing like belonging for people like you. There’s nothing like happy and nothing like love and nothing like fate and nothing, nothing really, for someone like you. Who are you, seriously? You don’t even have a father, let alone a fucking boyfriend, you silly silly little fag! Your siblings are not even really yours. Life doesn’t owe you shit._

And again, and again, and again, I got very drunk.

And then I came to the wedding. What an epic fuck, uh? You kissed me. I thought, just for a second… Fuck you, life. Fuck you, Terry. Fuck you stupid whore. We’ve won. You know? You were kissing me and I thought I had won. That we’ve won together, the stupid brave freedom to be ourselves and to love each other because really, we couldn’t force ourselves not to. I knew it, in that moment. We could never leave us behind. It wasn’t a surprise in my mind, really, but it was so evident all of a sudden.

But I misinterpreted. I always misinterpret.

And the voice was louder and louder.

I lost hope, I lost faith. Most of all, I lost interest. I started to feel numb. When I came to your house, I stared at that couch for good ten minutes, and I didn’t see anything. I didn’t feel anything. I was empty. An empty, pathetic, broken shell.

I knew I was dying and I truly didn’t care the slightest. I knew you were crying, I knew you were telling me not to go, and I knew you were hurting, too.

And yet, I didn’t care. I couldn’t find in my whole body an inch of the boy I used to be. I was a stranger to myself, a stranger to you, a stranger to Lip and a stranger to my own home.

I didn’t belong anywhere anymore. To anyone.

 

The army was my dream. It was the only thing I still knew about myself. I knew how to shoot and I knew how to obey. It was tough, but it was methodic, mechanic, it didn’t require any emotional effort, and for that I was grateful.

I was alone all the time, I didn’t let myself get close to the other guys. They tried, the first couple of days, but I pushed everyone away for a while.

Then, one night, I heard Nick crying.

Nick was a short guy, and I suspect he was underage too, because he looked really young, and too weak and too innocent and too uncontaminated for that place. I thought about Carl. And Debbie. And Liam. I thought about my family, and I felt warm for the first time in weeks.

So the next day, I approached him during breakfast. He was shy, but it was okay. We ate together, exchanged a few words, a smile. He was kind.

Kind and sad, and lost, just like me.

We were trying to survive to the winter of our souls. I didn’t want anyone to get near to me as you did. I just wanted to feel less lonely. And he was damaged too, and dysfunctional, too, so we just naturally linked. We talked about ourselves like we were talking about a far cousin. We laughed, sometimes, of little stupid jokes we would never have laughed about, if had been the ones we once were.

Of course, shit came down on us unexpected, unrequited, like shit always does.

There’s always this one group. I knew there would be, and that was another reason why I would never bang anyone in that shithole. Because I knew there’s always this one group. What I didn’t know, was that even being _friends_ can be misinterpreted. Or maybe they just knew I was, and they wanted to make me pay for it. Or maybe they knew he could have been, and they wanted to warn him.

I don’t know.

What I know was that I was showering, and Nick was too, in the shower next to mine. I know, you’re thinking we were showering together like a couple of fags, but there were actually walls around each shower, so really, each of us was alone in his safe place. Till the door opened, and I stared back to the group and I didn’t know what was happening or what to do about it, but it was bad and that I knew.  

«Look what’ve got here, out pretty little fag!» he laughed at me. I felt worry and adrenaline run down up my spine. I didn’t know how to protect myself, they were three, and fully dressed, and they had guns.

You may be starting to realize how this little story is fucking familiar, uh.

I don’t know how they knew it – they probably had a fucking radar or something. Maybe we smell different? We act different, without noticing? I never thought I was _that_ kind of fag, but Jesus Christ, somehow I sent these signs and they caught them.

I wasn’t going down without a fight, though.

What I wasn’t expecting was little Nick to join in. God, that stupid kid. He thought he could make a difference. For the record, I must say he throw in a few good punches. But we were still losing, and when they pointed guns at us, I knew we just weren’t going to get past this.

Again, so familiar.

Blood rushing down on two naked innocent bodies, and in my mind, you.

«Oh, here’s the other fuckin queer! What a perfect combination. Who takes it up the ass, uh? Who? You take turns? Are you two little lovebirds ready to give us a demonstration?»

I don’t remember it very well. I closed my eyes, and I tried so hard just to focus on your face. Smiling at me, Van Damme in the background. A joint passing back and forth. Iced beer. Your smile. Blue eyes. My oasis.

I tried to be gentle… But I hurt him, I knew. It was worse for him than for me. He was clearly straight, and if not, well, he was a virgin… He wasn’t prepared, he wasn’t… And he was trembling and crying and I just wanted to hug him and take him somewhere safe, like I should’ve done with you. I should’ve hugged you. I never hugged you.

My mind shifted. Flashes in my head, memories of days when everything fell apart. My eyes were closed, my eyes were shut open. Gun on me. That already happened. I started to lose grip on reality. I didn’t want to, I had to. Your face, his face, your tears, his tears. I was the whore. He was trembling, you weren’t. He was weak. Nothing like you. I wanted to save him. I wanted to save you.

When they had the proof they wanted, they beat us again, and again, because now they were justified in it. A couple of fags fucking in the showers, fucking faggots. AIDS monkeys.

I lost it, then.

Now I know what it was, but then, I just couldn’t care less. I just had this sudden energy in my hands, and then all went black for a while.

When I started to see again, they were on the ground, and Nick was panicking in a corner, sobbing. I put on him some clothes. I didn’t _feel_ anything.

I was bored by that place. I thought, _I’m sick of it. Let’s get out of here._

That’s when I tried to steal the helicopter. Bad, bad idea. I couldn’t drive a fucking helicopter. I was laughing like a manic psychopath, while pushing all kinds of buttons and screaming nonsense; Nick tried to convince me to leave it, to just go and report what happened in the showers, but I didn’t listen to him, I wanted to get out, I wanted to change my life, and I thought I could start a band or something or maybe become a photographer instead. I had tons of ideas.

I told Nick I needed to get out, that this wasn’t a place for me. I didn’t even asked him if he was okay.

He wasn’t. You weren’t.  

I just witnessed and participated to so much pain, without being able to make it better. I couldn’t… I _can’t_ stand it.

Nick covered my breakaway. He was a little, smart, kind kid. I left him behind. I left you behind.

 

I didn’t think about that day until after you came out at the Alibi. I ran out of that place and I never gave a second thought to the fact that I raped a friend. I never dared to linger on how fucking paradoxical, and cruel, my life has been to me.

I brought danger and pain to everyone who got too close to me.

After all, maybe that shit about gingers wasn’t so absurd.

 

You’re not going to like my next move. Lloyd.

He introduced me to the joy of being out and proud. For a while, I was the twink everyone wanted to try, the latest fashion everyone wanted to have. And I was willing to be shared, if they had the right party favors.

It was fun. What was wrong with fun?

Everything was wrong with fun.

It worked out fine for a while, but Lloyd was an intelligent man, a doctor, an active member of society. He was perfectly able to know when he was being used, and didn’t like it. So I had to go.

Then, it was… adventurous? Crazy? Out of control?

There’s only a word to it: Monica. We found each other during a party I went with the guy who was giving me shelter for the night. She was as perfectly damaged, adorably psychotic as ever. She was my mum and last time I saw her she had cut her wrists on Thanksgiving and was dying under my eyes, bleeding herself to unconsciousness on the kitchen floor. And then we were dancing under green lights and she made me try a lot of pretty hardcore shit that just sent me to heaven for a while.

I dreamed about you a lot. I saw you, I talked to you. I didn’t know where my body was, or what it was doing, or who was touching me, but I was with you. You were everywhere. Telling me not to go. Not to leave you. Telling me you would come after me. Telling me to kiss you.

And I kissed you.

I woke up after a few days, I think. I didn’t know where I was, and I finally, finally, after days of nothing. I _felt_ something.

I was scared. Scared of myself, scared of the people around me, scared of the fact that I was naked and I didn’t remember why. I was terrified.

And then I throw up till there was nothing in but bile.

After that, I came back to earth, kind of. I wasn’t the same, but I was awake, for the first time till the army. I knew I didn’t have money, and I knew there was something wrong with me, I knew staying with Monica was the worst idea ever, and it wasn’t even the worst idea I had had in the last few months.

A fucking helicopter, Jesus.

I found a job as a stripper. Great, easy money. I tried to get completely wasted each night without damaging too many things or people around me. That was my daily goal. Carry myself into a perpetual stage of oblivion, but trying not to end up in the wrong hands. There was still southside in my bones – I started to recognize a good company from a bad one.

I wanted them rich and old. They were the least harmful, they were thankful, and they were usually kind. They let me sleep until I wanted and when I woke up, they were always gone, leaving me with ridiculously high tips, a phone number and the exhortation to order continental breakfast and enjoy the exquisite room service before heading out.

I had reached the position I was trained to for all my life: being a whore.

I truly didn’t think anything about it. It was just what my life was. Didn’t really expect anything to change. Yes, I knew eventually my family would find me and take me home, but home wasn’t the real matter here. It was me.

They came one day and they looked so scared. Debbie was a woman and I missed it. Lip was worried and I ignored it.

I didn’t care, I just wanted to forget about everything I used to be and survive day by day, enjoy that fucked up kind of life that made me feel like James Dean, and laugh and fuck and drink, and sniff, and dance, and know new people, and smile, and talk, and do life. Not live it. Not be. Just do, do a lot. Do always a lot of things, without ever be.

When I saw your face in the crowd… I thought it was just the umpteenth dream. I thought it was just the ecstasy. It couldn’t be real – I dreamed about it so many times and it was never real.

Then I heard your voice. Then you were under me. I could feel your breath on my face, your eyes on my skin. You were there, you _were_. You were so different. Grown. Serious. Worried. Mad. Sarcastic. Handsome.

I never, I never, I never stopped loving you.

I couldn’t… I can’t believe you did everything you did for me. I’m starting to realize it just now. You saved me, Mick. And not just physically, not just logistically.

You took back Ian to Ian. You forced me to care when all I was trying to do was not to care. You forced me to wake up, you forced me to smash my face on my past, you forced me to fight, you forced me to _be_. And I owe you my life for that, because for months, I was a stranger to myself and I couldn’t recognize _one_ familiar thing around me, or inside of me, one thing that I could feel close, one thing that could feel like home.

You took me home, but most of all, you gave me home. You gave me myself back.

I know this is a lot. I know there are really no words I could say to make it feel better. I’m sorry if I had to do this, I know it hurts, I feel so selfish because it’s making me feel so much better and it’s just unfair that to get better I need to let you down. I’m sorry if I’m not anymore that little freckled kid that knocked at your door many years ago, crying and asking for help. You deserve that innocence. Not this mess. I’d like to go back, and make it right. I’d hug you a hell lot more. I know you would have punched me in the face. I’d take your punches. I’d take everything you were willing to give me. And I would protect you. And I would win.

I don’t know if I will ever not be broken, now.

But I will hug you. Once, and again, and again, and forever, until it’s better.

 

*

 

It had been a long day. Some hours had passed since he sent it, but Ian still wasn’t ready to call him. He was lying on his bed, listening to music, torturing his hair. Standing up, walking back and forth in the small room. He wanted a cigarette, no he didn’t. He wanted to call him. No, he didn’t. What would he say? Would he leave? Would he look him in the eyes and die again and again and again?

Would he stay, instead, and fight with him. Would he…

Suddenly he heard loud, violent voices grow in the hallway. He turned off the music and stared at the closed door nervously, scratching his head. He hoped Jack wasn’t trying to kill the nurses again because they were aliens sent there to kidnap him and study his brain to build robots that would destroy humankind. Ian sighed, trying to recognize the voices, or at least to understand what was all that mess about. He hesitated, hand on the doorknob, pondering if it was wise to participate to another Jack Horror Picture Show during his own personal breakdown.

«I DON’T GIVE A FUCK! CALL THE FUCKING POLICE! CALL YOUR SUPERIOR! CALL WHO THE FUCK YOU WANT, JUST GET OUT OF MY WAY OR I SWEAR TO GOD I’LL MAKE YOU.»

That voice.

Ian couldn’t help but smile before throwing the door open.

«Mick!»

A nurse and two security guards where trying to pull Mickey back, pushing him towards the elevator, but he wasn’t having any of it. He punched one of the guys and dodged the other, running past them stubbornly, right in Ian’s arms.

Ian smirked, drowning his nose in black hair.

He was home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will hate me so much I think I will hide in a corner and just pretend I didn't do what I did. I wanted it to be plausible even if it hurt, and I wanted it to be fitting, even if it hurt more. So I just couldn't convince myself not to do it. But I tried to make it bearable, I wanted Ian to talk about it as someone who has already analyzed any aspect of it, since he had nine days of therapy on his shoulders. I wanted him to talk about it from some distance, reflecting on the big picture, and I put all my personal betas in it, too. And at then end, I feel better just like he felt better, so I'm probably less sorry than I should be...  
> Forgive me guys.  
> Em  
> PS: the good news is that writing this chapter was so exhausting and psychologically excruciating , that you will probably get just fluffiness until the end of this story (which is, oh my god, painfully close)


	10. Day Ten - part two (what else?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> «We’d be fucking happy» Mickey said, suddenly.  
> «Ecstatic» Ian replied easily, closing his eyes to imagine it «We wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else»  
> He opened his eyes and met blue.  
> «With anyone else.»

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very very late, but hopefully the absurd amount of fluff will bribe you to forgive me!  
> We're almost over, four chapters, more or less.  
> Sigh.

 

«Listen, Brad. I’m telling you it’s fine, okay? I gave him permission. Let them be for God’s sake!» Emma rolled her eyes and shifted silently out of bed, careful not to wake her husband. She got closer to the window, resting her forehead on the cold glass and rubbing her eyes.

«It’s against the rules. He cannot have visitors during the two weeks. And who’s supposed to watch over them while they do… whatever they do?»

She snorted. Oh, obviously.

«I can take some time around next week to talk with you about your inner homophobia, Brad. But for now, since I’m Ian doctor and I make all the calls about him and his health, I’m telling you: close the fucking door behind you and forget about it. God’s not gonna punish you for what they do. What do you care?»

«How dare you…» Brad’s voice was an octave higher than before, his tone full of an indignation that clearly hid a generous pinch of shame. Still, he was an intern, and she was his superior. So he swallowed his pride, and shut up «Whatever. If someone complains is on you, though.»

«It’s always on me, Brad. Fortunately I rarely receive complains.»

And the conversation was off.

«Arrogant bitch» he whispered.

When he turned around, two pair of knowing smirks were pointing at him, silently tasting the sweet honey of the winners.

«He can stay» Brad croaked, storming out of Ian’s room whispering some shit Terry would have probably approved. But Terry was in the iron hotel, and Brad didn’t matter, and it would have been better for him to shut the fuck up as soon as possible, before Mickey lost his patience.

Fortunately, he slammed the door behind him, leaving the two alone.

They looked at each other for a long time without saying a word. Ian was sitting on the edge of the bed, tapping his long fingers on the two sides of his thighs. Mickey glanced at him from under his eyelashes, not knowing what to do, what to say.

He had dreamed of that moment since when he got out of that room, ten days before. He dreamed of the moment he would be able to touch Ian again without worrying to break him, to hurt him, to lose him. He had dreamed of telling him everything he didn’t dare to, of looking him in the eyes and smile devilishly knowing he could do anything, be anyone, and Ian would still be there to roll his green eyes at him and elbow him in the ribs, calling him _a_ _douchebag_ , which clearly was a code for “the love of my life”, because no one ever said _assface_ with such tenderness in his voice. It was southside language, and Mickey was craving for that little game they played, when they both knew what they were talking about without ever addressing it.

«So…» he didn’t even know if he wanted to start a new phase or just pick the lines up from the last time they were thoughtless and alone together. He just wanted that silence to stop.

«This is so awkward» Ian was physically unable to just keep a thought to himself, sometimes. He made Mickey think about little Carl. They were brothers, after all: sometimes, they just had to fill silence with the most inappropriate things.

He was almost rebating to shut up and be nice, when he noticed Ian’s little tics, and realized that maybe that moment was much more stressing for Ian than for him. He was gazing everywhere but in Mickey’s direction, not ever laying his eyes on the same spot twice. He was trembling a little, and gnashing his teeth loudly. His hands stopped tapping on his thighs, and started wandering through his hair, his neck, the pillow, his notebooks. He started walking around the room, apparently affected by a sudden need to clean the room.

Mickey waited in silence, but Ian seemed completely lost in his own world, a world with high walls where he was safe from hurt and judgment and shame and fear. Mickey didn’t want him to get out of it, didn’t surely want to drag him out. Honestly, maybe he just wanted to knock on the door and let himself silently in.

«Ian…» He didn’t want to scare him more than he already was, but the need to touch him was eating Mickey alive. He made a small, slow step in his direction, trying to catch his eye «It’s okay, Ian. Let it be fucking awkward. It will pass» he tried to reason with him, his voice excruciatingly halting. And maybe it was the fact that he was broken, too, that reached Ian.

It was so clear: they were just the same.

Ian turned around to look at him, his hands full of things, eyes wide open in anxiety. Mickey was standing, his bones aching, his hands didn’t know what to do with themselves if Ian was there and they weren’t anywhere near him. He looked at them for a moment, his little rough hands, too rough to hold a flower, but gentle enough to make things feel better, and life sometimes smoother. Should he shove them in his pockets? Should him stop biting his nails?

«I can’t believe I really told you. It feels so real now. I can’t…Sometimes I just can’t believe it really all happened» Ian’s voice was strangely calm, it sounded like it came from a place so far away Mickey would never be able to reach it.

But his body was there. His eyes were there.

Mickey was never so good with words anyway.

He kept slowly walking towards him, breathing heavily and trying to maintain eye contact, like you do with a wild, scared, unpredictable animal. Ian didn’t flinch, and for that Mickey was grateful more than he could ever admit. He could touch him now. Just stretch his arm and stroke his hair. Brush his cheek. Feel tears fall between his fingers.

«I know. Every day I see that little dump of flash and bones and good smell and I can’t believe he’s real. I keep thinking it’s just me having some kind of fucked up hallucination»

«Yeah. What am I even complaining about. At least I don’t have a fucking reminder of it sleeping and pooping in my house and sucking all my money…» Ian made a face, and Mickey wanted to shush him with a kiss, to wash it all away.

But he couldn’t avoid it anymore.

«Your shit isn’t any less horrible than my shit. Don’t be a fucking idiot and make stupid comparisons. We’re fucked up. What’s new.» Mickey grunted, and didn’t bother to hide a smile when Ian rolled his eyes. Personal space was a concept they simply weren’t able to conceive at that point. Ian’s forehead soon rested on Mickey’s. Mickey’s hands finally found peace in Ian’s.

«Just a lot of different variants of the same shit»

«Fifty shades of shit»

«Shit 2.0»

«The Return of the Shit»

«Nerd»

«Oh, yeah? Don’t even let me started. Like you didn’t dream of banging Aragorn when you were fourteen»

And again, they were chuckling like the world outside didn’t exist. It was always surprising, yet actually just inevitable, how the natural bond they had just settled between them like water sneaks under the harder, dryer ground, making life happen.

It was a second, Ian didn’t even know what snapped in his mind. He looked down at Mickey, and felt his lungs full of laugh, his chest losing weight. His hands were warm, wrapped around Mick’s fingers. His head didn’t hurt. Mickey was so close.

His lips were soft, just like he remembered. Mickey’s hands cupped his face with that unique mix of tenderness and roughness that was so unmistakably _his_ , Ian felt his knees crack and his whole body just fucking melt. He groaned in his mouth, and Mickey smirked.

They walked clumsily to the bed without even realizing it. Their bodies where so interlaced that they didn’t even know when one ended and the other began. Whose this hand? Whose this flesh? Whose this smell? Whose this heart?

Clothes fell, but their lips never parted once.

«I don’t have any lube here» Ian whispered as they both gasped for air «…nor condoms»

«You got checked?»

«Yeah, of course. You?»

«Some time ago. But since I’ve had only one, mhm… partner? For a long, long time…» He scoffed, avoiding Ian’s soft gaze.

Ian didn’t comment on that, and just spit on his fingers, jokingly pushing Mickey on the bed, clamping him with his hands on his back.

There they were, falling back into their old rhythms so easily and naturally their heads were spinning in confusion between past and present, dream and reality. But Ian’s fingers were on Mickey’s hole, stretching and prepping him, and everything in the world was turning out to be just kind of perfect.

 

*

 

Ian grabbed Mickey’s hips with a groan, pushing harder and harder inside of him, feeling his blood burning inside his veins in a so irresistible kind of pain. He felt his muscles tighten, his eyes tingle, an invisible heavy burden on his chest that made it quite difficult to breathe. It felt a lot like dying, but that kind of slow exquisite death that takes you straight to heaven.

He tried to keep the rhythm fast and steady, leaning forward so his chest was touching Mickey’s back and his hands were on his: he needed so desperately to feel him closer, like being inside of him wasn’t quite enough. He breathed loudly in his ear, his nose taking in his scent. He loved Mickey’s smell.

He smelled like cigarettes, and maple syrup, and man.

Mickey was silent as always, eyes closed and mouth open, lost in pleasure, his mind somehow so far away Ian was never able to figure out if he was even thinking about him while they were doing it. That didn’t bother him, most of the time, because he knew this was the only moment when Mickey could truly be himself without shame nor second thoughts, and he was just trying to get the best out of it. But this time – this time – he needed him to be there. With him.

«Mick… Mick, look at me – he murmured between sighs and sweat, feeling their bodies melt in one each second more – please, look at me…»

Mickey heard him from far away. In his mind, he was drowning in an ocean of warm, true happiness, and not only because he was being so deliciously fucked. He was between Ian’s arms, wrapped in his air, in his skin, and though he couldn’t even move and there was no way to escape from it, it was the only place where he felt free. His eyes were closed, in a desperate attempt to protect himself just a little from losing his heart completely, from giving up on all his shields, from making the mask fall and crash against the floor, showing how deeply, madly, hopelessly…

«Look… at… me» his voice was like a magnet; he felt his gaze burning on his face, stronger than any fear he had ever had.

Mickey opened his eyes wide and immediately felt that kind of ache you feel when you see too much light after too much dark. Ian was there, so close he could count his long eyelashes, smiling at him, the brightest, sweetest expression on his face, his freckles dancing, his eyes dazzling and infinite, showing him places he never though he would ever be able to see. He didn’t know what Ian was seeing in his eyes, but he suddenly felt naked, like he was reading in them all the answers Mickey didn’t know he had.

« I love you»

Suddenly none of them was moving anymore. They just kept looking at each other, their breaths hard and deep, their hands forever intertwined.

*

«Say it again»

Mickey groaned, hiding his face under the pillow.

«This shit was waaaay easier on the phone»

«Cmon, does it really make that big of a difference?»

«Of course it fucking does! Your puppy face scares me, man. I never know if you’re going to start demanding this shit every minute like a needy bitch or just ask me to marry you or some shit. I’ve been taking it up in the ass all my life and one damn reason was to avoid all this chicks shit and now here I am dealing with feelings and stuff.»

They were spooning in the little hospital bed, which was one of the many situations Ian Gallagher led him to that Mickey thought he would never find himself in, though he had to admit there was something inexplicably exciting in breaking the hospital rules to fuck and cuddle. If there was a reason for someone to break the rules like that, it was it. Ian was warm behind him and the afterglow was better than any drug he’d ever taken.

«Well, if it’s so hard for you…» Ian tried lazily to sound offended, but really, he was way too happy to even pretend to be affected by Mickey’s complaints.

«If you want me to explain myself you should put a little more effort in trying to sound hurt» Mickey smiled.

«I know what you mean, I don’t need you to explain. _I know you_ »

«Oh, you think you know me? You have the puzzle clear and nothing I do or say would ever surprise you anymore?»

«I’m just saying I think I understand you better than anyone»

«While I have to wait in line after all your brothers?»

«No… Just Lip. And Mandy»

«You think my sister knows you better than I do?!»

Ian shifted, lying on his back with his arms behind his head, and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. Mickey turned around to look at him, propping himself up on an elbow with his eyebrows raised high on his forehead.

«I don’t know, Mick. I mean, before this few days we didn’t talk so much about ourselves… To know the things I know about you I talked a lot to Mandy and I basically stalked you in every possible way for years»

«And what makes you think I didn’t do the same?»

They stared at each other for a minute. Then Ian smirked devilishly.

«Okay. Let’s see. My favorite movie?»

«The Gladiator. Now me. Favorite breakfast»

Ian whistled «Too easy! Black coffee and banana pancakes. My… celebrity crush»

«I’d say George Clooney since you like old men so much» Ian elbowed him in the ribs «Ow! Okay okay… that punk from Maroon 5»

«Adam Levine?»

«Yeah, I saw that picture of him naked with an hand on his crotch on your phone one day»

«Okay, Sherlok. Your turn»

«How I see myself in ten years»

Ian stared at him blankly.

«How you hope to be in ten years or how you expect yourself to?»

«How I expect myself to be»

«Well.» he started, unsure «I’d say you see yourself here. Same neighborhood, hopefully different house, without Svetlana and the baby. But still paying them money every month, and maybe being a little present in Yev’s life. You’d be staying relatively out of trouble, maybe selling weed or coke every now or then but nothing too serious. No rub’n’tug, you’d want to be as far from Svetlana as possible. I don’t know… Maybe construction? You could easily take your GED and work somewhere better, as a quantity surveyor or something, but you would never believe in yourself enough to do it. I don’t know, what else?»

Mickey rolled his eyes and looked at him like a child who didn’t understand why two and two makes four.

«What else? Seriously?»

Ian smiled sheepishly, not meeting his eyes.

«How do I see myself in ten years?»

«Chicago, maybe not Southside if you can choose, but still close to the neighborhood. You’d finish school and maybe take some courses at Malcom X, and find a nice job. You’d help Fiona and Lip raising money for the family, and do homework with the little black one or have “the talk” with Carl. You’d be the same, just wiser. Calmer.»

«What about the bipolar shit?»

Mickey shuddered lightly «It won’t change anything»

Ian looked at him, smirking adoringly «What else?»

They grinned at each other.

 

«We’d be fucking happy» Mickey said, suddenly.

«Ecstatic» Ian replied easily, closing his eyes to imagine it «We wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else»

He opened his eyes and met blue.

«With anyone else.»

«I’d make you banana pancakes every morning» Ian hugged him and pecked him on his forehead, and Mickey moaned in hunger, nodding in approval.

«You’d better, since I’d blow you every morning»

«You would?»

«Stop staring at me like that. This is not fucking romantic, we are talking about bjs for fuck’s sake»

«Thinking about waking up next to you every day, have your mouth on me every morning, and then having breakfast together in bed seems pretty romantic to me»

Mickey blushed and cursed between his teeth, fighting to keep his face straight. Which was fucking impossible with Ian glancing at him with hope and expectations and rainbows in his eyes, like he was looking at the most precious thing in the world.

«You can just say it, you know, you don’t need to be sneaky about it» Mickey mumbled, almost bored by the even more emotional turn the conversation took.

«I love you, Mick»

«Okay»

«I love you!»

«Yeah, I got it the first time you said it»

«I’ve wanted to tell you in your face since forever and now that I did it I liked it so much I want to do it a lot more»

Mickey closed his eyes and started massaging his temples.

«I bet it’s gonna be a long night»

«I love you»

«Oh, seriously?? Tell doc to change this fucking meds»

«It’s not the meds talking, you ungrateful idiot!»

«Excuse me? What exactly do I need to be grateful for?»

«I love you»

«Jesus Christ. Well, thank you so much»

«You’re welcome»

«Could we get some sleep now?»

«Of course, love»

«You’re fucking kidding me right now. You’re just being the sneakiest annoying shit because you know I could never possibly tell you to shut the fuck up about it»

«About what, my love?»

«That’s NEVER gonna be a thing, you hear me?»

«I don’t know what you’re talking about, darling» he replied, grinning mischievously while snuggling on Mickey’s chest.

«Gallagher! Cut it!»

He heard him chuckle silently and groaned in desperation.

There was a moment of silence when Mickey thought Ian had finally fallen asleep.

«Thank you for staying»

Mickey raised his head a little and glanced at him, his expression softening when he met his eyes.

«I love you too, idiot»

«I know»

«Then shut up about it already and let me sleep»

They settled in a peaceful silence, Ian’s head pressed against Mickey’s neck, his hand on his chest. Before falling asleep, Mickey’s hand shifted, covering Ian’s right on his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The part you can read in the summary is actually a quote from a brilliant British short series called "The Hour". Run. Just go. What are you waiting for?


	11. Day Eleven (the one thing)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He would just put the past behind and start fresh. Look at the shit that happened from the outside and grin, and go see Ian through a glass. Then he would wait two days and go pick him up and take him home. He would lay with him in bed at night and fall briskly into their old intimacy like they were never apart, back to their old rhythms so easily they would almost forget how hard it had been to get to that point.
> 
> He would win this war and get his prize.
> 
> And be fucking happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SORRY. I am. I had a very very stressing, emotionally scarring life in the last few months. I wrote a novel, I started my last year of college, I became Head of Students in my Faculty, I started a lot of projects I'll never finish, I had a loooot of sex, I traveled, I had some life changing thoughts on my future, I worked, I lived a lot. 
> 
> I should have found the time. I should have and I would have if in the meantime of all of this I didn't also completely lost my inspiration. I was very silent in the fandom too, since I was upset for some reasons I will not say here, but you can read on my blog (follevolo.tumblr.com). So, again, sorry sorry sorry. It's not even long or great. But I tried and I swear, it was fucking hard. I hope things will change and I will find trust and inspiration again. I was thinking about another multichapter some time ago, before some shit had happened and then I just forgot about it because it was easier and because I wasn't really in the mood to interact with the fandom anymore.  
> Now I'm back... Kind of. I hope I'm back on track. So here's something... Shitty, but it does exist and this is itself a great accomplishment for the way I see it. 
> 
> Lots of love as usual,
> 
> Em

«You know you really don’t have to do it»

«I know»

«I didn’t ask you to»

«I know…»

Mickey rolled his eyes and repressed a smirk; he was alone sitting on the stairs of Milkovich’s house – nobody could see him smile. Even so, he was so used to hide his feelings that he felt almost the _need_ to do it. Nobody was looking at him, nobody was listening to the conversation he was having on the phone. Yet, he had to bite his bottom lip and hide a growing grin. When he realized what he was doing, he wanted to punch himself.

Then again now he didn’t feel like smiling anymore. Fucking terrified subconscious.

«I didn’t even think about the possibility of you doing this, you brought it up»

Mickey sighed, exhausted.

«I know»

«It’s not easy and it requires an enormous amount of trust»

«I fucking know, Gallagher. Jesus Christ may I be free to do as I please? _Please_?»

«I just don’t understand what you’re aiming at. If you’re doing to make me feel better you shouldn’t do it»

 

Mickey took a cigarette out of the pack and put it between his lips, lighting it easily and fast with his trained fingers. He took a slow, relaxed drag. He wasn’t nervous. He was determined and focused.

That was not the reason.

«I’m doing it for me» he whispered, adamantly.

He heard Ian’s mouth tremble a little. It probably wasn’t a sound bats would recognize, so he _imagined_ it more than heard it, but he was sure it happened. They learned, in the last ten days, to touch each other without being in the same room. They were on the same page, though, and that was more they ever had before.

«I need it» he continued, sniffing a little «I really fucking need it, Ian»

«How bad is it going to be?»

«As bad as it gets better when it comes to you» he answered instinctively, without thinking about it. Then he thought about it, and it probably was one of the cheesiest lines he had ever heard, let alone said. He prepared himself to the wave of self-disgust he was used to drown in when he let his guard off a little and then realized it, but it never came. He closed his eyes for a few seconds. He felt the sweet taste of his words in his memory. He tried again, looking for his shame. His instinct to hide. His self-hate.

He felt nothing but blatant awareness.

«Are you drunk?» The disbelief in Ian’s voice was honestly amusing. And perfectly understandable, actually. But things were different for Mickey nowadays. Not that he suddenly turned into a fag, fuck if he would ever deal with that. But he knew some things about himself now, about his life, his priorities, the things that made him smile, the things he was scared of.

He didn’t want to admit that talking to Ian’s doc had immediately taken away from his shoulder a timeless burden; he didn’t want to admit how fucking freeing that had been. How safe he felt while letting words flow out in the air around him without nothing, nothing happening, no consequences, no judgments. He would not admit it under death threat, but it was true. And he was seeing things differently, now. He had found out, after a decade of silent love deprivation and self-harm, that nobody could really enter his mind and see what his true thoughts and feelings were, except for him. He was the only owner of his own self. He was in control of his own heart, and body.

It seems easy, it seems like the easiest thing on earth. But not for a Milkovich, oh no. _You don’t own anything, but your pride and your guns._

He was always so afraid of being himself, that self acceptance, for him, was something only people who get to go on Oprah to talk about their problems can afford. Who cares about all that love yourself bullshit, when you have to constantly watch your back in your own home? When your first enemy is the one who literally made you into this shithole of a world? He was not safe. He couldn’t show his real face, clean and unashamed. He always looked for a place to hide. Until Ian, he used to think no one, ever, would be trustworthy enough to let his true colors shine through his dirty pale face.

But things where changing, and he was adjusting as he could. So, he decided to slowly, slowly, admit something to himself. Not a lot, not nearly enough. He was just trying, for a start, not to cut his own feelings at the root. Let them survive and struggle, let the environment around them be a little less hostile.

For example: he enjoyed talking with Ian. He liked it. It made him happy.

Ian, in general, made him happy.

 

«No, asswipe, I’m not drunk»

«You do realize what you just said?»

«I am very aware of it, yeah»

 

Second: he liked to make Ian shut up with something he didn’t expect to happen.

 

«I don’t even recognize you anymore, sometimes» Ian laughed, sheepishly «you are so fucking weird. One day you are this proud silent little shit and then you open up like a damn sunflower. Are you kidding me? Are you doing it to make me feel better?»

«If I’m a sunflower, do you consider yourself the sun? Jesus, Gallagher, keep your ego on a human level»

Ian groaned in frustration and Mickey laughed louder. He knew Ian would think this was all about him.

«I’m just trying something» he mumbled in a mysterious and useless attempt of an explanation.

«Yeah, you’re trying to flatter me into dull submission so I’ll blow you for eternity and do everything you say from the moment I’m out of this place»

«You got me, man. Is it working?»

«You can bet your cute little ass on it. I am getting that phrase tattooed»

Mickey scoffed at the answer.

«It’s not such a big deal» he minimized, trying to keep everybody’s feet on the ground. It really wasn’t a big deal for him. Well, it wasn’t even such a news. Even if everything seemed to demonstrate the opposite, because the troubles he took with him were infinite and unquantifiable, his life before Ian couldn’t even be defined as a life.

He was just breathing through corrupted lungs, setting fire his insides for fun, collecting pictures from the flood that kept wrecking his home.

Third admission: Ian was like breathing after you’ve been under water almost one second too much, and you were truly scared you wouldn’t make it to the surface in time for your lungs not to explode.

 

«So you’re sure, sure?»

«Yeah, I’m sure. I’ll do it this afternoon»

 

He would just put the past behind and start fresh. Look at the shit that happened from the outside and grin, and go see Ian through a glass. Then he would wait two days and go pick him up and take him home. He would lay with him in bed at night and fall briskly into their old intimacy like they were never apart, back to their old rhythms so easily they would almost forget how hard it had been to get to that point.

He would win this war and get his prize.

And be fucking happy.

 

*

 

  From: Mickey Milkovich;  [mick.vich@live.com](mailto:mick.vich@live.com)

To: Ian Gallagher; [ian.gallagher@gmail.com](mailto:ian.gallagher@gmail.com)

Object: the fuck you’r looking at?!

 

So this is it, uh. Not that I’m complaining, but it feels really fucking queer. How do normal people deal with this? I feel like you’re looking at me with that puppy eyes of yours. Fucking Labrador puppy eyes, the one from toilet paper ads.

Yeah I know, it was my idea. My stupid idiotic pathetic choice.

I’m gonna do it. Right now. After I finish the third beer of the afternoon because this feels really wrong.

 

I drank up the fourth. Just in case.

 

Okay.

 

I found out I was gay when I was twelve years old. I never used to get hard while watching porn with my brothers, and I was so dumb at the time I thought maybe it didn’t work like that, because I woke up hard every morning but it never happened when a naked girl was around, and they were always around in Milkovich’s house. So I thought, maybe it gets hard only in the morning, and this is how it works, but then why everyone had sex at night? I heard my father groan in the other room with some whore, sometimes one, sometimes more than one, sometimes blonde or brunette big tits or A cups, he never gave a shit as long as they had a hole between their legs and they were cheap. They were always from the East of Europe, though, that was a thing for him, maybe for a kind of Ukrainian pride, who the fuck knows.

I was happy when the Russian whores were around because it meant Mandy was safe for the night.

… I know you know. I know about the last time and what your family did. I…

I am begging you for Christ’s sake, never, ever… don’t you ever dare to talk about this. Ever.

Moving on.

When I was twelve, I had reached the age for a Milkovich to become a man. My father and my brother were waiting for me to do my first move.

And that was when I realized I didn’t like girls at all. They were just so… soft, I guess? Everywhere. Every  inch of their body smelled funny. And they were all so smooth around the edges, too. Like, so fragile I could break them. And they talked too much. And they smiled too much. And they all looked too much like Mandy for my own taste.

But I had to do it, I knew that. So that’s what I did: I chose the ugliest girl  in my class and I took her to my place and left the door of my room wide open. She was scared but she was so happy I chose her among the others that she would let me do anything to her. I wasn’t even nice to her. I wasn’t gentle or anything.

I was terrified, too, and miserable. I wanted to just run away and hide somewhere my father or my brothers couldn’t make fun of me, and just cry and puke for a while. But I stood my ground instead, trying not to look at her too much. My sight was caught by a poster I had, you know, Blade? That guy was awesome, let me tell you.

And it worked. I looked at him, and she was under me, and I was making it work. My father entered the room to go to the bathroom and got us in the middle. She was crying for embarrassment and humiliation. She ran away and I didn’t stop her. I couldn’t care less.

I had just realized I was going to pretend for the rest of my life.

At the beginning, I tried to ignore it. I was young. I didn’t want to think about it; thinking about it wouldn’t make it easier or acceptable. I banged a lot of girls in my room, looking at Blade. I used to take them from behind, my hands on their hips without ever touching their boobs, you know, trying to pretend they weren’t there.  But they were and it felt sick and wrong – just very wrong.

Then juvie time came for me – and let me tell you, I know you little princess wouldn’t even survive to foster care, but for me, it was like free vacation. I was far from my father and that shithole that smelled like puke every fucking hour of the day. I was just worried for Mandy – but I had left her a gun and I knew she had hidden it under her bed for bad times. That little bitch – I was the stronger one, the older one, the bigger one, but we both knew I’ve always been more scared than she ever was. I don’t even know how she does it. She’s just so fucking brave it’s annoying.

God, I’m a sap. I was talking about juvie – man, I got so laid. First time, it was fucking painful. I felt bad for that girl. I thought about her for like half a second and I just felt so much empathy, because I felt a bit like crying for embarrassment too. But it was the only place where my father couldn’t reach me and the only chance I had for being myself, so I fucking took it. In more ways than one.

I learned from experience that being fucked by someone in a place like that isn’t the smartest choice. I suddenly became the honey every fucking bear wanted to have – and it was not as fun as it looks like. I made them understand quite soon that I was not some bitch they could use to shot their guns and then beat the shit out of, but at the beginning it was kind of a tough journey and I learned my lessons in the Milkovich instructions paper way. I was used to be beaten to unconsciousness since I was seven, really, but one thing was my father, a Milkovich, the head of the family, and a whole other thing was some twink who thought he could ride me like a fucking racehorse. Nope. Not happening.

Years passed as easily as this shit of a life could be. In and out, some good deals, some pretty bad scars; I was maniacally careful  not to bang anyone in the range of a mile from where my dad could possibly be passed out snoring – possibly right next to yours, if you think about it… I never banged the same dude twice and I used to threaten them into silence and sometimes beat the shit out of them right after, to make it look like I did it on porpoise or something. I am not proud, but I don’t regret it either –

I needed to protect myself.

We are getting to the part when you come into the picture.

So okay, I was a jerk, can you blame me? I had a shitty life, no future, my father fucked my sister on a weekly basis and beat the shit out of me on a daily, I was having a really hard time forgiving myself for being a monster, I was disgusted and scared and angry because seriously, one would think being born in this fucking place would be enough, that being born in this fucking joke of a family would be enough, my mother died when I was just a kid and honestly I barely remember her, and thank God for that, she was a drug addict and a dried-up whore who smoked twenty cigarettes a day while I was in her belly and guess what? I am fucking short, thanks mum, thank you very much, you would think this was enough but no, make him homo too, what a catch!

Jesus fucking Christ, the irony.

 I hated everyone and myself, mostly. I didn’t like you that much either. I’m not coming here saying I used to steal in towel head’s store to be with you because that would be pathetic and cheesy and a lie.

I knew you were banging him, though. And that tickled me. Like: how do they do that? Under everybody’s eyes? In this neighborhood? Let me tell you, you weren’t subtle at all, anybody could just fucking tell. And that was so frustrating. Who gave you the right. I was banging chicks looking at fucking posters on my walls and praying to die before having to lick some pussy, and you were there living West Side Story with some creepy old dude from assfucking-stan? Unacceptable.

And then you came to me and something just – snapped. The classic final puzzle piece to a very shitty picture. But it was a beautiful puzzle piece: you made everything look complete.

 

You were the only guy I banged in my house.  My father was in the other room – I don’t even know what the hell was I thinking. I lost it. I just needed to finally be myself under my fucking roof without looking at Blade to make it hard.

 

Sometimes I feel like it’s so fucking impossible to love you without touching you, because you and me were fire from the start to the end. I don’t wanna go all sappy on you, you know I’m not the type who says the right word at the right time. What I am going to say, though, is this one thing: our lives suck. Our dads suck. We have no money, no education, no future, nothing. We are the freak show in the shithole. There is probably no going downer than this. But no matter what, no matter how ridiculously idiotic our choices have been, no matter how unbearable the situations get, no matter how much we force each other in life or death ultimatums, no matter how many times we cheated and walked away and pretended it was nothing and underestimated and given up and took revenge and said or done or thought the worst.

You make every step of the way so easy. Everything, every chitchat, every burden, it would be unthinkable without you, because it’s you, I don’t have to pretend, I don’t have to force myself, I don’t have to hide, I don’t even have to think about it. You make it easy because you give me prospective on the things I want. It would have been impossible, ridiculous, absurd to even think about coming out in front of my father. But you were leaving and I knew what I can bear and what I just can’t.

And for this fucking shit of a life, I’m in, I’m in and we are a family and we are going to fight like we always do, each other and the world and each other again. But I will wake up next to you even when we’ll be so old we’ll not wake up hard in the morning anymore. I’ll be there for every fucking family dinner and when Lip graduates and when Fiona get married and I’ll be grumpy and annoyed and bored and Debbie will drive me crazy but I’ll also protect her like you always did with Mandy, because we are one.

Jesus, I’m so fucking drunk I’m not even sorry. I have no regrets. This is the truth of it all. I’m not the best person, I’m not your smart choice, I’m ignorant and an idiot most of the times and if you weren’t you, and we weren’t us, you would have hated and despised me but one thing, at least one, to balance all the other shit, one should go right to everyone, and you are the one thing that went right for me, I don’t know if this makes any sense, but you are my one thing. One happy thing, one good thing. Mine.

I really need to get my shit together.

I’m not sure if you’re crying or laughing right now. Don’t really want to know.

See you soon, I guess, uh?

M

 

*

 

**_Sent to Mick – 19.43_ **

Both. I’m a mess.

You’re my one thing, too.

 

**_Sent to Ian – 20.04_ **

For fuck’s sake, Ian, don’t let me regret this…

 

**_Sent to Mick – 20.16_ **

I’m so gonna blow your brains out the moment I get out of here

 

**_Sent to Ian – 20.27_ **

That was my aim from the start. Gotcha.

 

**_Sent to Mick – 20.30_ **

Yeah, yeah. Say what you want. I’m still your one thing at the end of the day.

 

**_Sent to Ian – 20.32_ **

Jesus. Yes, you are.


End file.
